THIRD STROPHE.
Creon. Woe! Woe!
I am thrilled with fright,
O, the horrible sight!
Is there none
To lay me low—
Alas! Undone!
To give a blow
Full in the breast
With a two-edged glaive?
Ill-starred, no rest,
None, but the grave
For the miserable wretch to share,
Now plunged in the depths of despair!
Messenger. Ay, at thy door the death of both was laid
By her thou seest here in death arrayed.
Creon. And what the manner of her violent taking off?
Messenger. Her own hand struck the blow, full in the heart,
When for her son she felt of grief the smart.
FOURTH STROPHE.
Creon. Woe is me!
Oh! the fault is mine!
No other of mortal kind
Can bear the guilt
For the cruel blow!
Thy blood I spilt,
Laid thee low!
I own it again!
Now, servants, convey—
O the pain!—
The miserable wretch away!
Take me away with all speed,
I am nothing, nothing indeed!
