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130 Ism. What meanest thou? It is but all too clear

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,

A prize full rich for birds that scent afar

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?

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?