Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/264

166 What prowess is it fallen foes to slay?

Good counsel give I, planning good for thee,

And of all joys the sweetest is to learn

From one who speaketh well, should that bring gain.

Creon. Old man, as archers aiming at their mark,

So ye shoot forth your venomed darts at me;

I know your augur's tricks, and by your tribe

Long since am tricked and sold. Yes, gain your gains,

Get Sardis' amber metal, Indian gold;

That corpse ye shall not hide in any tomb.

Not though the eagles, birds of Zeus, should bear

Their carrion morsels to the throne of God,

Not even fearing this pollution dire,

Will I consent to burial. Well I know

That man is powerless to pollute the Gods.

But many fall, Teiresias, dotard old,

A shameful fall, who gloze their shameful words

For lucre's sake, with surface show of good.

Teir. Ah me! Does no man know, does none consider

Creon. Consider what? What trite poor saw comes now?

Teir. How far good counsel is of all things best?

Creon. So far, I trow, as folly is worst ill.

Teir. Of that disease thy soul, alas! is full.

Creon. I will not meet a seer with evil words.

Teir. Thou dost so, saying I divine with lies.

Creon. The race of seers is ever fond of gold.

Teir. And that of tyrants still loves lucre foul.

Creon. Dost know thou speak'st thy words of those that rule?

Teir. I know. Through me thou rul'st a city saved.