ANTIGONE (continued 1)
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Sophocles and Storr, Francis
CREON. What woe is lacking to my tale of woes?
SECOND MESSENGER. Thy wife, the mother of thy dead son here, Lies stricken by a fresh inflicted blow.
CREON. (Ant. 1) How bottomless the pit! Does claim me too, O Death? What is this word he saith, This woeful messenger? Say, is it fit To slay anew a man already slain? Is Death at work again, Stroke upon stroke, first son, then mother slain?
CHORUS. Look for thyself. She lies for all to view.
CREON. (Ant. 2) Alas! another added woe I see. What more remains to crown my agony? A minute past I clasped a lifeless son, And now another victim Death hath won. Unhappy mother, most unhappy son!
SECOND MESSENGER. Beside the altar on a keen-edged sword She fell and closed her eyes in night, but erst She mourned for Megareus who nobly died Long since, then for her son; with her last breath She cursed thee, the slayer of her child.
CREON. (Str. 3) I shudder with affright O for a two-edged sword to slay outright A wretch like me, Made one with misery.
SECOND MESSENGER. ’Tis true that thou wert charged by the dead Queen As author of both deaths, hers and her son’s.
CREON. In what wise was her self-destruction wrought?
SECOND MESSENGER. Hearing the loud lament above her son With her own hand she stabbed herself to the heart.
CREON. (Str. 4) I am the guilty cause. I did the deed, Thy murderer. Yea, I guilty plead. My henchmen, lead me hence, away, away, A cipher, less than nothing; no delay!
CHORUS. Well said, if in disaster aught is well His past endure demand the speediest cure.
CREON. (Ant. 3) Come, Fate, a friend at need, Come with all speed! Come, my best friend, And speed my end! Away, away! Let me not look upon another day!
CHORUS. This for the morrow; to us are present needs That they whom it concerns must take in hand.
CREON. I join your prayer that echoes my desire.
CHORUS. O pray not, prayers are idle; from the doom Of fate for mortals refuge is there none.
CREON. (Ant. 4) Away with me, a worthless wretch who slew Unwitting thee, my son, thy mother too. Whither to turn I know now; every way Leads but astray, And on my head I feel the heavy weight Of crushing Fate.
CHORUS. Of happiness the chiefest part Is a wise heart: And to defraud the gods in aught With peril’s fraught. Swelling words of high-flown might Mightily the gods do smite. Chastisement for errors past Wisdom brings to age at last.
Transcriber’s Notes
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.