Eur. That is, a Creon: O thou black detractor,
Who spit'st thy venom against gods and men!
Thou enemy of eyes;
Thou, who lov'st nothing but what nothing loves,
And that's thyself; who hast conspired against
My life and fame, to make me loathed by all,
And only fit for thee.
But for Adrastus' death,—good Gods, his death!—
What curse shall I invent?
Dioc. No more: he's here.
Eur. He shall be ever here.
He who would give his life, give up his fame—
Enter Adrastus.
If all the excellence of woman-kind
Were mine;—No, 'tis too little all for him:
Were I made up of endless, endless joys!
Adr. And so thou art:
The man, who loves like me,
Would think even infamy, the worst of ills,
169 Were cheaply purchased, were thy love the price.
Uncrowned, a captive, nothing left but honour,—
'Tis the last thing a prince should throw away;
But when the storm grows loud, and threatens love,
Throw even that o'er-board; for love's the jewel,
And last it must be kept.
Cre. [To Dioc.] Work him, be sure,
To rage; he is passionate;
Make him the aggressor.
Dioc. O false love, false honour!
Cre. Dissembled both, and false!
Adr. Darest thou say this to me?