ETEOCLES. Ah me, the madman, and the curse of Heaven! And woe for us, the lamentable line Of Oedipus, and woe that in this house Our father’s curse must find accomplishment! But now, a truce to tears and loud lament, Lest they should breed a still more rueful wail! As for this Polynices, named too well, Soon shall we know how his device shall end— Whether the gold-wrought symbols on his shield, In their mad vaunting and bewildered pride, Shall guide him as a victor to his home! For had but Justice, maiden-child of Zeus, Stood by his act and thought, it might have been! Yet never, from the day he reached the light Out of the darkness of his mother’s womb, Never in childhood, nor in youthful prime, Nor when his chin was gathering its beard, Hath Justice hailed or claimed him as her own. Therefore I deem not that she standeth now To aid him in this outrage on his home! Misnamed, in truth, were Justice, utterly, If to impiety she lent her hand. Sure in this faith, I will myself go forth And match me with him; who hath fairer claim? Ruler, against one fain to snatch the rule, Brother with brother matched, and foe with foe, Will I confront the issue. To the wall! CHORUS. O thou true heart, O child of Oedipus, Be not, in wrath, too like the man whose name Murmurs an evil omen! ’Tis enough That Cadmus’ clan should strive with Argos’ host, For blood there is that can atone that stain! But—brother upon brother dealing death— Not time itself can expiate the sin! ETEOCLES. If man find hurt, yet clasp his honour still, ’Tis well; the dead have honour, nought beside. Hurt, with dishonour, wins no word of praise! CHORUS. Ah, what is thy desire? Let not the lust and ravin of the sword Bear thee adown the tide accursed, abhorred! Fling off thy passion’s rage, thy spirit’s prompting dire! ETEOCLES. Nay—since the god is urgent for our doom, Let Laius’ house, by Phoebus loathed and scorned, Follow the gale of destiny, and win Its great inheritance, the gulf of hell! CHORUS. Ruthless thy craving is— Craving for kindred and forbidden blood To be outpoured—a sacrifice imbrued With sin, a bitter fruit of murderous enmities! ETEOCLES. Yea, my own father’s fateful Curse proclaims— A ghastly presence, and her eyes are dry— _Strike! honour is the prize, not life prolonged!_ CHORUS. Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare To call thee _coward_, in thy throned estate! Will not the Fury in her sable pall Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods Welcome a votive offering from our hands? ETEOCLES. The gods! long since they hold us in contempt, Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost! Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom? CHORUS. Now, when it stands beside thee! for its power May, with a changing gust of milder mood, Temper the blast that bloweth wild and rude And frenzied, in this hour!