I have not bought my pardon with my eyes, But fain would perish for thee, limit by limb. 170 Exact at last the penalty I owe. Now I atone; then I but sacrificed Unto thy manes. Be thou here to aid, And my reluctant hand help me to plunge Deep down and deeper in my sightless eyes. A scant and timid offering I made, When first I plucked my eager eyeballs out. 175 And even now my trembling spirit halts, Yea, halts, though downward to my shrinking hands My face inclines. Now shalt thou hear the truth, O Oedipus: less boldly than thou plan'dst Did'st thou pluck out thine eyes. Let now thy brain 180 Feel those avenging fingers; through this door Complete the death which has begun in me. _Antigone:_ O father, great of soul, I pray thee hear With quiet mind thy wretched daughter's words: I do not seek to lead thee back again Into the presence of thy former home, Nor to the illustrious splendor of thy realm; 185 I ask thee not with calm and peaceful soul To bear again that fearful shock of woe Which even yet the soothing hand of time Has not assuaged. And yet it is not meet That one so stout of heart should be o'ercome And to misfortune weakly turn his back. It is not valor, father, as thou think'st, 190 To shrink from life; but 'gainst the mightiest ills To stand opposed, and not to flinch or budge, That is the truest test of manly worth. Who tramples under foot his destiny, Who disregards and scorns the goods of life, And aggravates the evils of his lot, 195 Who has no further need of Providence: Wherefore should such a man desire to die, Or seek for death? Each is the coward's act. No one holds death in scorn who seeks to die. The man whose evils can no farther go Is safely lodged. Who of the gods, think'st thou, 200 Grant that he wills it so, can add one jot Unto thy sum of trouble? Nor canst thou, Save that thou deem'st thyself unfit to live. But thou art not unfit, for in thy breast No taint of sin has come. And all the more, My father, art thou free from taint of sin, Because, though heaven willed it otherwise, 205 Thou still art innocent. What is there now Which has so maddened thee, which goads thy heart To fresh outbursts of grief? What forces thee To seek the abodes of hell, and fly from these? Is't that thou wouldst avoid the light of day? Thou dost avoid the light. Or wouldst thou flee This noble palace and thy native land? Thy native land, although thou livest still, Is dead to thee. Wouldst from thy sons escape, 210 And from thy mother? From the sight of all Has fate removed thee; and whatever death From any man can take, thy life has taken. Art weary of the kingdom's press and stir? At thy command thy former courtier throng