CREON.
Both maids, methinks, are crazed. One suddenly
Has lost her wits, the other was born mad.
ISMENE.
Yea, so it falls, sire, when misfortune comes,
The wisest even lose their mother wit.
CREON.
I’ faith thy wit forsook thee when thou mad’st
Thy choice with evil-doers to do ill.
ISMENE.
What life for me without my sister here?
CREON.
Say not thy sister here: thy sister’s dead.
ISMENE.
What, wilt thou slay thy own son’s plighted bride?
CREON.
Aye, let him raise him seed from other fields.
ISMENE.
No new espousal can be like the old.
CREON.
A plague on trulls who court and woo our sons.
ANTIGONE.
O Haemon, how thy sire dishonors thee!