O god-detested! god-bemadded race![n36]
Woe-worthy sons of woe-worn Oedipus!
Your father’s curse is ripe! but tears are vain,
And weeping might but mother worser woe.
O Polynices! thy prophetic name
Speaks more than all the emblems of thy shield;
Soon shall we see if gold-bossed words can save thee,
Babbling vain madness in a proud device.
If Jove-born Justice, maid divine, might be
Of thoughts and deeds like thine participant,