Chorus: To me, unless old age have dulled my wits, Thy words appear both reasonable and wise.
Haemon: Father, the gods implant in mortal men Reason, the choicest gift bestowed by heaven. ’Tis not for me to say thou errest, nor Would I arraign thy wisdom, if I could; And yet wise thoughts may come to other men And, as thy son, it falls to me to mark The acts, the words, the comments of the crowd. The commons stand in terror of thy frown, And dare not utter aught that might offend,
But I can overhear their muttered plaints, Know how the people mourn this maiden doomed For noblest deeds to die the worst of deaths. When her own brother slain in battle lay Unsepulchred, she suffered not his corse To lie for carrion birds and dogs to maul: Should not her name (they cry) be writ in gold? Such the low murmurings that reach my ear. O father, nothing is by me more prized
Than thy well-being, for what higher good Can children covet than their sire’s fair fame, As fathers too take pride in glorious sons? Therefore, my father, cling not to one mood, And deem not thou art right, all others wrong. For whoso thinks that wisdom dwells with him, That he alone can speak or think aright, Such oracles are empty breath when tried. The wisest man will let himself be swayed
By others’ wisdom and relax in time. See how the trees beside a stream in flood Save, if they yield to force, each spray unharmed, But by resisting perish root and branch. The mariner who keeps his mainsheet taut, And will not slacken in the gale, is like To sail with thwarts reversed, keel uppermost. Relent then and repent thee of thy wrath; For, if one young in years may claim some sense,
I’ll say ’tis best of all to be endowed With absolute wisdom; but, if that’s denied, (And nature takes not readily that ply) Next wise is he who lists to sage advice.
Chorus: If he says aught in season, heed him, King.
To Haemon.
Heed thou thy sire too; both have spoken well.
Creon: What, would you have us at our age be schooled, Lessoned in prudence by a beardless boy?
Haemon: I plead for justice, father, nothing more. Weigh me upon my merit, not my years.
Creon: Strange merit this to sanction lawlessness!
Haemon: For evil-doers I would urge no plea.
Creon: Is not this maid an arrant law-breaker?
Haemon: The Theban commons with one voice say, No.
Creon: What, shall the mob dictate my policy?
Haemon: ’Tis thou, methinks, who speakest like a boy.
Creon: Am I to rule for others, or myself?
Haemon: A State for one man is no State at all.
Creon: The State is his who rules it, so ’tis held.
Haemon: As monarch of a desert thou wouldst shine.
Creon: This boy, methinks, maintains the woman’s cause.
Haemon: If thou be’st woman, yes. My thought’s for thee.
Creon: O reprobate, would’st wrangle with thy sire?
Haemon: Because I see thee wrongfully perverse.