Creon
Yea, for thyself wouldst credit now his word.

Oedipus
Aye, and on thee in all humility
I lay this charge:  let her who lies within
Receive such burial as thou shalt ordain;
Such rites ’tis thine, as brother, to perform. 
But for myself, O never let my Thebes,
The city of my sires, be doomed to bear
The burden of my presence while I live. 
No, let me be a dweller on the hills,
On yonder mount Cithaeron, famed as mine,
My tomb predestined for me by my sire
And mother, while they lived, that I may die
Slain as they sought to slay me, when alive. 
This much I know full surely, nor disease
Shall end my days, nor any common chance;
For I had ne’er been snatched from death, unless
I was predestined to some awful doom. 
     So be it.  I reck not how Fate deals with me
But my unhappy children—­for my sons
Be not concerned, O Creon, they are men,
And for themselves, where’er they be, can fend. 
But for my daughters twain, poor innocent maids,
Who ever sat beside me at the board
Sharing my viands, drinking of my cup,
For them, I pray thee, care, and, if thou willst,
O might I feel their touch and make my moan. 
Hear me, O prince, my noble-hearted prince! 
Could I but blindly touch them with my hands
I’d think they still were mine, as when I saw.
[Antigone and Ismene are led in.]
What say I? can it be my pretty ones
Whose sobs I hear?  Has Creon pitied me
And sent me my two darlings?  Can this be?

Creon
’Tis true; ’twas I procured thee this delight,
Knowing the joy they were to thee of old.

Oedipus
God speed thee! and as meed for bringing them
May Providence deal with thee kindlier
Than it has dealt with me!  O children mine,
Where are ye?  Let me clasp you with these hands,
A brother’s hands, a father’s; hands that made
Lack-luster sockets of his once bright eyes;
Hands of a man who blindly, recklessly,
Became your sire by her from whom he sprang. 
Though I cannot behold you, I must weep
In thinking of the evil days to come,
The slights and wrongs that men will put upon you. 
Where’er ye go to feast or festival,
No merrymaking will it prove for you,
But oft abashed in tears ye will return. 
And when ye come to marriageable years,
Where’s the bold wooers who will jeopardize
To take unto himself such disrepute
As to my children’s children still must cling,
For what of infamy is lacking here? 
“Their father slew his father, sowed the seed
Where he himself was gendered, and begat
These maidens at the source wherefrom he sprang.” 
Such are the gibes that men will cast at you. 
Who then will wed you?  None, I ween, but ye
Must pine, poor maids, in single barrenness. 
O Prince, Menoeceus’ son, to thee, I turn,
With the it rests to father them, for we