CREON. Old man, ye all let fly at me your shafts Like anchors at a target; yea, ye set Your soothsayer on me. Peddlers are ye all And I the merchandise ye buy and sell. Go to, and make your profit where ye will, Silver of Sardis change for gold of Ind; Ye will not purchase this man’s burial, Not though the winged ministers of Zeus Should bear him in their talons to his throne; Not e’en in awe of prodigy so dire Would I permit his burial, for I know No human soilure can assail the gods; This too I know, Teiresias, dire’s the fall Of craft and cunning when it tries to gloss Foul treachery with fair words for filthy gain. TEIRESIAS. Alas! doth any know and lay to heart— CREON. Is this the prelude to some hackneyed saw? TEIRESIAS. How far good counsel is the best of goods? CREON. True, as unwisdom is the worst of ills. TEIRESIAS. Thou art infected with that ill thyself. CREON. I will not bandy insults with thee, seer. TEIRESIAS. And yet thou say’st my prophesies are frauds. CREON. Prophets are all a money-getting tribe. TEIRESIAS. And kings are all a lucre-loving race. CREON. Dost know at whom thou glancest, me thy lord? TEIRESIAS. Lord of the State and savior, thanks to me. CREON. Skilled prophet art thou, but to wrong inclined. TEIRESIAS. Take heed, thou wilt provoke me to reveal The mystery deep hidden in my breast. CREON. Say on, but see it be not said for gain. TEIRESIAS. Such thou, methinks, till now hast judged my words. CREON. Be sure thou wilt not traffic on my wits. TEIRESIAS. Know then for sure, the coursers of the sun Not many times shall run their race, before Thou shalt have given the fruit of thine own loins In quittance of thy murder, life for life; For that thou hast entombed a living soul, And sent below a denizen of earth, And wronged the nether gods by leaving here A corpse unlaved, unwept, unsepulchered. Herein thou hast no part, nor e’en the gods In heaven; and thou usurp’st a power not thine. For this the avenging spirits of Heaven and Hell Who dog the steps of sin are on thy trail: What these have suffered thou shalt suffer too. And now, consider whether bought by gold I prophesy. For, yet a little while, And sound of lamentation shall be heard, Of men and women through thy desolate halls; And all thy neighbor States are leagues to avenge Their mangled warriors who have found a grave I’ the maw of wolf or hound, or winged bird That flying homewards taints their city’s air. These are the shafts, that like a bowman I Provoked to anger, loosen at thy breast, Unerring, and their smart thou shalt not shun. Boy, lead me home, that he may vent his spleen On younger men, and learn to curb his tongue With gentler manners than his present mood. [Exit TEIRESIAS] CHORUS. My liege, that man hath gone, foretelling woe. And, O believe me, since these grizzled locks Were like the raven, never have I known The prophet’s warning to the State to fail.