OEDIPUS.
Where art thou, daughter?
ANTIGONE.
Haled along by force.
OEDIPUS.
Thy hands, my child!
ANTIGONE.
They will not let me, father.
CREON.
Away with her!
OEDIPUS.
Ah, woe is me, ah woe!
CREON.
So those two crutches shall no longer serve thee
For further roaming. Since it pleaseth thee
To triumph o’er thy country and thy friends
Who mandate, though a prince, I here discharge,
Enjoy thy triumph; soon or late thou’lt find
Thou art an enemy to thyself, both now
And in time past, when in despite of friends
Thou gav’st the rein to passion, still thy bane.
CHORUS.
Hold there, sir stranger!
CREON.
Hands off, have a care.
CHORUS.
Restore the maidens, else thou goest not.