Vain men, what would ye with this angry swell

Of words heart-blinded? Is there in your eyes

No pity, thus, when all our city lies

Bleeding, to ply your privy hates?... Alack,

My lord, come in!—Thou, Creon, get thee back

To thine own house. And stir not to such stress

Of peril griefs that are but nothingness.

Creon.

Creon.

Sister, it is the pleasure of thy lord,

Our King, to do me deadly wrong. His word

Is passed on me: 'tis banishment or death.

Oedipus.

Oedipus.

I found him ... I deny not what he saith,

My Queen ... with craft and malice practising

Against my life.

Creon.

Creon.

Ye Gods, if such a thing

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