Eteocles.
The gods will reck the curse, but not the prayers
Of Laius’ race. Our doom is their delight.
’Tis now too late to fawn the Fate away.
ANTISTROPHE V.
Chorus.
Nay! but yet thou mayst: the god,
That long hath raged, and burneth now,
With a gentler sway soft-wafted,
Soon may fan thy fevered brow.
Eteocles.