He wrongs the Gods. Sole prophet unto men
Ought Phœbus to have been, who feareth none.
Chorus.
Why silent, Kreon, with lips held from speech?960
On me, too, consternation weighs no less.
Kreon.
What should one say?—But clear mine answer is:
Never such depth of misery will I seek,
As offer for my city a slaughtered son!
For love of children filleth all men's life,965
And none to death would yield up his own child.
Let no man's praise lure me to slay my sons![1]
Myself—who have reached the ripeness of my years—
For death stand ready, to redeem my land.
But up, my child, ere all the city hear.970
Heed not the reckless words of soothsayers:
But fly—with all speed get thee from the land!
To the seven gates, the captains, will he go,
And tell the rulers and the chieftains this.
Yet, may we but forestall him, thou art saved.975
But if thou lag, undone we are—thou diest.
Menoikeus.
But whither flee?—what city seek?—what friend?
Kreon.
Where thou from this land's reach shalt farthest be.
- ↑ Reading κτείνειν. Al. κτείνων, "Let no man praise me while he slays my sons."
