CHORUS.
Sure ye are driven on the breakers’ surge.
ANTIGONE.
Alas! we are.
CHORUS.
Alas! ’tis so.
ANTIGONE.
Ah whither turn, O Zeus? No ray
Of hope to cheer the way
Whereon the fates our desperate voyage urge.
[Enter THESEUS]
THESEUS.
Dry your tears; when grace is shed
On the quick and on the dead
By dark Powers beneficent,
Over-grief they would resent.
ANTIGONE.
Aegeus’ child, to thee we pray.
THESEUS.
What the boon, my children, say.
ANTIGONE.
With our own eyes we fain would see
Our father’s tomb.
THESEUS.
That may not be.
ANTIGONE.
What say’st thou, King?