Sophocles (c. 496 - 413 BC) : From "Antigone"

              CHORUS

                         I

Much is there passing strange ;
    Nothing surpassing mankind.
He it is loves to range
Over the ocean hoar,
Thorough the surges' roar,
     South winds raging behind ;


Earth,  too,  wears he away,
     The Mother of Gods on high,
Tireless, free from decay ;
With team he furrows the ground,
And the ploughs go round and round,
     As year on year goes by.   



Antigone

Sophocles (c. 496 - 413 BC) : From "Antigone"

ISMENE.   What is it ? I see you have some mystery.

ANTIGONE.    What !  has not Creon to the tomb preferred
                   One of our brothers, and with contumely
                   Withheld it from the other ?  Eteocles  
                   Duly, they say, even as by law was due,
                   He hid beneath the earth, rendering him honour
                   Among the dead below :  but the dead body
                   Of Polynices, miserably slain, 
                   They say it has been given out publicly
                   None may bewail, none bury, all must leave
                   Unwept, unsepulchred, a dainty prize
                   For fowl that watch, gloating upon their prey !
                   This is the matter he has had proclaimed -
                   Excellent Creon ! for your heed, they say, 
                   And mine, I tell you - mine ! and he moves hither,
                   Meaning to announce it plainly in the ears
                   Of such as do not know it, and to declare
                   It is not matter of small moment ;  he
                   Who does any of these things shall surely die ;
                   The citizens shall stone him in the streets.
                   So stands the case.  Now you will quickly show
                   If you are worthy of your birth or no.

ISMENE.  But O rash heart,  what good,  if it be thus,
                  Could I effect,  helping or hindering ?

ANTIGONE.   Look, will you join me ?   will you work with me ?

ISMENE.   In what attempt ?   What mean you ?

ANTIGONE.                                                                   Help me lift 

                    The body up -

ISMENE.                                 What, would you bury him ?

                   Against the proclamation ?

ANTIGONE.                                                   My own brother
                   And yours I will !   If you will not,  I will ;
                   I shall not prove disloyal. 

ISMENE.                                                      You are mad !
                  When Creon has forbidden it ?

ANTIGONE.                                                    From mine own
                   He has no right to stay me.

ISMENE.                                                     Alas, O sister,
                   Think how our father perished !  self-convict  -
                   Abhorred - dishonoured - blind - his eyes put out
                   By his own hand !  How she who was at once
                   His wife and mother with a knotted noose
                   Laid violent hands on her own life !   And how
                   Our two unhappy brothers in one day
                   Each on his own head by the other's hand
                   Wrought common ruin !   We now left alone -
                   Do but consider how most miserably
                   We too shall perish, if despite of law
                   We traverse the behest of power of kings.
                   We must remember we are women born,
                   Unapt to cope with men ;   and, being ruled
                   By mightier than ourselves, we have to hear
                   These things - and worse.   For my part, I will ask
                   Pardon of those beneath, for what perforce
                   I needs must do, but yield obedience
                   To them that walk in power ;  to exceed
                   Is madness, and not wisdom.

ANTIGONE.                                                       Then in future
                   I will not bid you help me ;  nor henceforth,
                   Though you desire, shall you, with my good will,
                   Share what I do.  Be what seems right to you ;
                   Him will I bury.  Death, so met, were honour ;
                   And for that capital crime of piety,
                   Loving and loved, I will lie by his side,
                   Far longer is there need I satisfy
                   Those nether Powers, than powers on earth ;   for there
                   For ever must I lie.  You, if you will,
                   Hold up to scorn what is approved of Heaven !

ISMENE.   I am not one to cover things with scorn ;
                   But I was born too feeble to contend
                   Against the state.

ANTIGONE.                                   Yes, you can put that forward ;
                   But I will go and heap a burial mound
                   Over my most dear brother.

ISMENE.                                                           My poor sister,
                   How beyond measure do I fear for you !

ANTIGONE.    Do not spend fear on me. Shape your own course.

ISMENE.   At least announce it, then, to nobody.
                   But keep it close,  as I will.

ANTIGONE.                                               Tell it, tell it !
                    You'll cross me worse, by far, if you keep silence -
                    Not publish it to all.

ISMENE.                                              Your heart beats hotly
                    For chilling work !

ANTIGONE.                                      I know that those approve
                    Whom I most need to please.

ISMENE.                                                             If you could do it !
                    But you desire impossibilities.

ANTIGONE.     Well,  when I find I have no power to stir,
                    I will cease trying.

ISMENE.                                         But things impossible
                   'This wrong to attempt at all.

ANTIGONE.                                                     If you will say it,
                   I shall detest you soon ;  and you will justly
                   Incur the dead man's hatred.   Suffer me
                   And my unwisdom to endure the weight
                   Of what is threatened.   I shall meet with nothing
                   More grievous, at the worst,  than death,  with honour.

ISMENE.  Then go, if you will have it :  and take this with you,
                  You go on a fool's errand !                          [Exit ANTIGONE.
                                                                   
                                                                   Lover true
                  To your beloved, none the less, are you !                     [Exit.




Antigone

Brook Thoughts