CHORUS.
This for the morrow; to us are present needs
That they whom it concerns must take in hand.
CREON.
I join your prayer that echoes my desire.
CHORUS.
O pray not, prayers are idle; from the doom
Of fate for mortals refuge is there none.
CREON.
(Ant. 4)
Away with me, a worthless wretch who slew
Unwitting thee, my son, thy mother too.
Whither to turn I know now; every way
Leads but astray,
And on my head I feel the heavy weight
Of crushing Fate.
CHORUS.
Of happiness the chiefest part
Is a wise heart:
And to defraud the gods in aught
With peril’s fraught.
Swelling words of high-flown might
Mightily the gods do smite.
Chastisement for errors past
Wisdom brings to age at last.