ANTIGONE
O grave, O bridal bower, O prison house
Hewn from the rock, my everlasting home,
Whither I go to join the mighty host
Of kinsfolk, Persephassa’s guests long dead,
The last of all, of all more miserable,
I pass, my destined span of years cut short. 
And yet good hope is mine that I shall find
A welcome from my sire, a welcome too,
From thee, my mother, and my brother dear;
From with these hands, I laved and decked your limbs
In death, and poured libations on your grave. 
And last, my Polyneices, unto thee
I paid due rites, and this my recompense! 
Yet am I justified in wisdom’s eyes. 
For even had it been some child of mine,
Or husband mouldering in death’s decay,
I had not wrought this deed despite the State. 
What is the law I call in aid?  ’Tis thus
I argue.  Had it been a husband dead
I might have wed another, and have borne
Another child, to take the dead child’s place. 
But, now my sire and mother both are dead,
No second brother can be born for me. 
Thus by the law of conscience I was led
To honor thee, dear brother, and was judged
By Creon guilty of a heinous crime. 
And now he drags me like a criminal,
A bride unwed, amerced of marriage-song
And marriage-bed and joys of motherhood,
By friends deserted to a living grave. 
What ordinance of heaven have I transgressed? 
Hereafter can I look to any god
For succor, call on any man for help? 
Alas, my piety is impious deemed. 
Well, if such justice is approved of heaven,
I shall be taught by suffering my sin;
But if the sin is theirs, O may they suffer
No worse ills than the wrongs they do to me.

CHORUS
The same ungovernable will
Drives like a gale the maiden still.

CREON
Therefore, my guards who let her stay
Shall smart full sore for their delay.

ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me!  This word I hear
Brings death most near.

CHORUS
I have no comfort.  What he saith,
Portends no other thing than death.

ANTIGONE
My fatherland, city of Thebes divine,
Ye gods of Thebes whence sprang my line,
Look, puissant lords of Thebes, on me;
The last of all your royal house ye see. 
Martyred by men of sin, undone. 
Such meed my piety hath won.
[Exit ANTIGONE]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Like to thee that maiden bright,
          Danae, in her brass-bound tower,
Once exchanged the glad sunlight
          For a cell, her bridal bower. 
And yet she sprang of royal line,
          My child, like thine,
          And nursed the seed
          By her conceived
Of Zeus descending in a golden shower. 
Strange are the ways of Fate, her power
Nor wealth, nor arms withstand, nor tower;
Nor brass-prowed ships, that breast the sea
          From Fate can flee.