CHORUS
I had misgivings from the first, my liege,
Of something more than natural at work.

CREON
O cease, you vex me with your babblement;
I am like to think you dote in your old age. 
Is it not arrant folly to pretend
That gods would have a thought for this dead man? 
Did they forsooth award him special grace,
And as some benefactor bury him,
Who came to fire their hallowed sanctuaries,
To sack their shrines, to desolate their land,
And scout their ordinances?  Or perchance
The gods bestow their favors on the bad. 
No! no!  I have long noted malcontents
Who wagged their heads, and kicked against the yoke,
Misliking these my orders, and my rule. 
’Tis they, I warrant, who suborned my guards
By bribes.  Of evils current upon earth
The worst is money.  Money ’tis that sacks
Cities, and drives men forth from hearth and home;
Warps and seduces native innocence,
And breeds a habit of dishonesty. 
But they who sold themselves shall find their greed
Out-shot the mark, and rue it soon or late. 
Yea, as I still revere the dread of Zeus,
By Zeus I swear, except ye find and bring
Before my presence here the very man
Who carried out this lawless burial,
Death for your punishment shall not suffice. 
Hanged on a cross, alive ye first shall make
Confession of this outrage.  This will teach you
What practices are like to serve your turn. 
There are some villainies that bring no gain. 
For by dishonesty the few may thrive,
The many come to ruin and disgrace.

GUARD
May I not speak, or must I turn and go
Without a word?—­

CREON
                    Begone! canst thou not see
That e’en this question irks me?

GUARD
                                   Where, my lord? 
Is it thy ears that suffer, or thy heart?

CREON
Why seek to probe and find the seat of pain?

GUARD
I gall thine ears—­this miscreant thy mind.

CREON
What an inveterate babbler! get thee gone!

GUARD
Babbler perchance, but innocent of the crime.

CREON
Twice guilty, having sold thy soul for gain.

GUARD
Alas! how sad when reasoners reason wrong.

CREON
Go, quibble with thy reason.  If thou fail’st
To find these malefactors, thou shalt own
The wages of ill-gotten gains is death.
[Exit CREON]

GUARD
I pray he may be found.  But caught or not
(And fortune must determine that) thou never
Shalt see me here returning; that is sure. 
For past all hope or thought I have escaped,
And for my safety owe the gods much thanks.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Many wonders there be, but naught more wondrous than man;
Over the surging sea, with a whitening south wind wan,
Through the foam of the firth, man makes his perilous way;
And the eldest of deities Earth that knows not toil nor decay
Ever he furrows and scores, as his team, year in year out,
With breed of the yoked horse, the ploughshare turneth about.