Creon to one of our two brothers grants,
But to the other he denies, a grave.
Eteocles, as they tell me, he has laid
With all due form and reverence in the tomb,
There to be ranked among the honoured dead.
But Polynices' miserable corpse,
It seems, by strict injunction he forbids
All citizens to bury or to mourn;
Ordering that it be left without a grave,
Unwailed, a welcome prey to ravening birds.
This proclamation Creon, worthy man—
Look thou, look both of us alike—puts forth.
'Tis said he hither comes to publish it,
To all who know it not, nor deems the thing
Of small concern; for whoso disobeys
His penalty is to be stoned to death.
So stands the matter; it will now be seen
Whether thy soul is worthy of thy race.
ISMENE.
How, daring maid, can I in such a case,
Whether to loose or bind, assistance lend?
ANTIGONE.
Wilt thou take part and aid me? Ponder well.
ISMENE.
In what adventure? What is in thy mind?
ANTIGONE.
Will thy arm help me to uplift the corpse?