CREON
’Tis death that bars this marriage, not his sire.

CHORUS
So her death-warrant, it would seem, is sealed.

CREON
By you, as first by me; off with them, guards,
And keep them close.  Henceforward let them learn
To live as women use, not roam at large. 
For e’en the bravest spirits run away
When they perceive death pressing on life’s heels.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Thrice blest are they who never tasted pain! 
     If once the curse of Heaven attaint a race,
     The infection lingers on and speeds apace,
Age after age, and each the cup must drain.

So when Etesian blasts from Thrace downpour
     Sweep o’er the blackening main and whirl to land
     From Ocean’s cavernous depths his ooze and sand,
Billow on billow thunders on the shore.

(Ant. 1)
On the Labdacidae I see descending
     Woe upon woe; from days of old some god
     Laid on the race a malison, and his rod
Scourges each age with sorrows never ending.

The light that dawned upon its last born son
     Is vanished, and the bloody axe of Fate
     Has felled the goodly tree that blossomed late. 
O Oedipus, by reckless pride undone!

(Str. 2)
Thy might, O Zeus, what mortal power can quell? 
Not sleep that lays all else beneath its spell,
Nor moons that never tire:  untouched by Time,
          Throned in the dazzling light
          That crowns Olympus’ height,
Thou reignest King, omnipotent, sublime.

          Past, present, and to be,
          All bow to thy decree,
          All that exceeds the mean by Fate
          Is punished, Love or Hate.

(Ant. 2)
Hope flits about never-wearying wings;
Profit to some, to some light loves she brings,
But no man knoweth how her gifts may turn,
Till ’neath his feet the treacherous ashes burn. 
Sure ’twas a sage inspired that spake this word;
          If evil good appear
          To any, Fate is near;
And brief the respite from her flaming sword.

          Hither comes in angry mood
          Haemon, latest of thy brood;
          Is it for his bride he’s grieved,
          Or her marriage-bed deceived,
          Doth he make his mourn for thee,
          Maid forlorn, Antigone?
[Enter HAEMON]

CREON
Soon shall we know, better than seer can tell. 
Learning may fixed decree anent thy bride,
Thou mean’st not, son, to rave against thy sire? 
Know’st not whate’er we do is done in love?

HAEMON
O father, I am thine, and I will take
Thy wisdom as the helm to steer withal. 
Therefore no wedlock shall by me be held
More precious than thy loving goverance.