TI
408
Though thou art king and lord, I claim no less
Lordly prerogative to answer thee.
Speech is my realm; Apollo rules my life,
Not thou. Nor need I Creon to protect me.
410
Now, then: my blindness moves thy scorn:—thou hast
Thy sight, and seest not where thou art sunk in evil,
What halls thou dost inhabit, or with whom:
Know’st not from whence thou art—nay, to thy kin,
Buried in death and here above the ground,
415
Unwittingly art a most grievous foe.
415
And when thy father’s and thy mother’s curse
With fearful tread shall drive thee from the land,
On both sides lashing thee,—thine eye so clear
Beholding darkness in that day,—oh, then,
What region will not shudder at thy cry?
420
What echo in all Cithaeron will be mute,
When thou perceiv’st, what bride-song in thy hall
Wafted thy gallant bark with nattering gale
To anchor,—where? And other store of ill
Thou seest not, that shall show thee as thou art,
Merged with thy children in one horror of birth.
425
Then rail at noble Creon, and contemn
My sacred utterance! No life on earth
More vilely shall be rooted out, than thine.