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140 Lifting their head in secret long ago,

Still murmured thus against me. Never yet

Had they their neck beneath the yoke, content

To bear it with submission. They, I know,

Have bribed these men to let the deed be done.

No thing in use by man, for power of ill,

Can equal money. This lays cities low,

This drives men forth from quiet dwelling-place,

This warps and changes minds of worthiest stamp,

To turn to deeds of baseness, teaching men

All shifts of cunning, and to know the guilt

Of every impious deed. But they who, hired,

Have wrought this crime, have laboured to their cost,

Or soon or late to pay the penalty.

But if Zeus still claims any awe from me,

Know this, and with an oath I tell it thee,

Unless ye find the very man whose hand

Has wrought this burial, and before mine eyes

Present him captive, death shall not suffice,

Till first, hung up still living, ye shall show

The story of this outrage, that henceforth,

Knowing what gain is lawful, ye may grasp

At that, and learn it is not meet to love

Gain from all quarters. By base profit won

You will see more destroyed than prospering.

Guard. May I then speak? Or shall I turn and go?

Creon. See'st not e'en yet how vexing are thy words?

Guard. Is it thine ears they trouble, or thy soul?

Creon. Why dost thou gauge my trouble where it is?

Guard. The doer grieves thy heart, but I thine ears.

Creon. Pshaw! what a babbler, born to prate art thou!

Guard. May be; yet I this deed, at least, did not.

Creon. Yes, and for money; selling e'en thy soul.