CREON.
Thou'lt rue thy preaching, void thyself of sense.
HAEMON.
I'd say thou dotest, wert thou not my sire.
CREON.
Slave of a woman, do not gird at me!
HAEMON.
Wouldst thou have all the talking to thyself?
CREON.
Indeed! By heaven above, thou shalt repent!
Thus censuring first and then reviling me.
Bring out that hateful thing that she may die
Forthwith, and here before her lover's eyes.