POL.  Alas!  Vain enterprise, and hope undone! 
Oh, my poor comrades!  To what fatal end
I led you forth from Argos, woe is me! 
I may not tell it you,—­no, nor return. 
In silence I must go to meet my doom. 
Daughters of this inexorable sire,
Since now ye have heard his cruel curse on me,
Ah! in Heaven’s name, my sisters, do not you
Treat me despitefully, but if, one day,
Our father’s execration is fulfilled
And ye shall be restored to Theban ground,
Grace me with funeral honours and a tomb! 
So shall this ample praise which ye receive
For filial ministration, in that day
Be more than doubled through your care for me.

ANT.  Brother, I beg thee, listen to my prayer!

POL.  Dearest Antigone, speak what thou wilt.

ANT.  Turn back thy host to Argos with all speed,
And ruin not thyself and Thebe too.

POL.  Impossible.  If once I shrink for fear,
No longer may I lead them to the war.

ANT.  But why renew thy rage?  What benefit
Comes to thee from o’erturning thine own land?

POL.  ’Tis shameful to remain in banishment,
And let my brother mock my right of birth.

ANT.  Then seest thou not how true unto their aim
Our father’s prophecies of mutual death
Against you both are sped?

POL.  He speaks his wish. 
’Tis not for me to yield.

ANT.  O me, unhappy! 
But who that hears the deep oracular sound
Of his dark words, will dare to follow thee?

POL.  They will not hear of danger from my mouth. 
Wise generals tell of vantage, not of bale.

ANT.  Art thou then so resolved, O brother mine?

POL.  I am.  Retard me not!  I must attend
To my dark enterprise, blasted and foiled
Beforehand by my father’s angry curse. 
But as for you, Heaven prosper all your way,
If ye will show this kindness in my death,
For nevermore in life shall ye befriend me! 
Nay, cling to me no longer.  Fare ye well. 
Ye will behold my living form no more.

ANT.  O misery!

POL.  Bewail me not.

ANT.  And who
That saw thee hurrying forth to certain death
Would not bewail thee, brother?

POL.  If Fate wills,
Why, I must die.

ANT.  Nay, but be ruled by me.

POL.  Give me not craven counsel.

ANT.  Woe is me,
To lose thee!

POL.  Heaven hath power to guide the event
Or thus or otherwise.  Howe’er it prove,
I pray that ye may ne’er encounter ill. 
All men may know, ye merit nought but good.
                   [Exit.  The sky is overcast—­a storm is threatened