Ism. What meanest thou? It is but all too clear20
Thou broodest darkly o'er some tale of woe.
Antig. And does not Creon treat our brothers twain
One with the rites of burial, one with shame?
Eteocles, so say they, he interred
Fitly, with wonted rites, as one held meet
To pass with honour to the dead below.
But for the corpse of Polyneikes, slain
So piteously, they say, he has proclaimed
To all the citizens, that none should give
His body burial, or bewail his fate,
But leave it still unwept, unsepulchred,[1]
A prize full rich for birds that scent afar30
Their sweet repast. So Creon bids, they say,
Creon the good, commanding thee and me,—
Yes, me, I say,—and now is coming here,
To make it clear to those who know it not,
And counts the matter not a trivial thing;
But whoso does the things that he forbids,
For him there waits within the city's walls
The death of stoning. Thus, then, stands thy case;
And quickly thou wilt show, if thou art born
Of noble nature, or degenerate liv'st,
Base child of honoured parents.
Ism. How could I,
Ο daring in thy mood, in this our plight,
Or breaking law or keeping, aught avail?40
Antig. Wilt thou with me share risk and toil? Look to it.
Ism. What risk is this? What purpose fills thy mind?
Antig. Wilt thou help this my hand to lift the dead?
