ETEOCLES. O god-detested! god-bemadded race![n36] Woe-worthy sons of woe-worn Oedipus! Your father's curse is ripe! but tears are vain, And weeping might but mother worser woe. O Polynices! thy prophetic name Speaks more than all the emblems of thy shield; Soon shall we see if gold-bossed words can save thee, Babbling vain madness in a proud device. If Jove-born Justice, maid divine, might be Of thoughts and deeds like thine participant, Thou mightst have hope; but, Polynices, never, Or when the darkness of the mother's womb Thou first didst leave, or in thy nursling prime, Or in thy bloom of youth, or in the gathering Of beard on manhood's chin, hath Justice owned thee, Or known thy name; and shall she know thee now Thou leadst a stranger host against thy country? Her nature were a mockery of her name If she could fight for knaves, and still be Justice. In this faith strong, this traitor I will meet { 281} Myself: the cause is mine, and I will fight it. For equal prince to prince, to brother brother, Fell foe to foe, suits well. And now to arms! Bring me my spear and shield, hauberk and greaves!
CHORUS. Dear son of Oedipus! let not thy wrath Wax hot as his whom thou dost chiefly chide! Let the Cadméans with the Argives fight; This is enough: their blood may be atoned. But, when a brother falls by brother's hands, Age may not mellow such dark due of guilt.
ETEOCLES. If thou canst bear an ill, and fear no shame, Bear it: but if to bear is to be base, Choose death, thy only refuge from disgrace.
STROPHE IV. CHORUS. Whither wouldst thou? calm thy bosom, Tame the madness of thy blood; Ere it bear a crimson blossom, Pluck thy passion in the bud.
ETEOCLES. Fate urges on; the god will have it so.[n37] Now drift the race of Laius, with full sail, Abhorred by Phœbus, down Cocytus' stream!
ANTISTROPHE IV. CHORUS. Let not ravening rage consume thee! Bitter fruit thy wrath will bear; Sate thy hunger with the thousands, But of brother's blood beware!
ETEOCLES. The Curse must work its will: and thus it speaks, Watching beside me with dry tearless eyes, _Death is thy only gain, and death to-day_ _Is better than to-morrow!_[n38]
STROPHE V. CHORUS. Save thy life: the wise will praise thee; To the gods with incense come, And the storm-clad black Erinnys Passes by thy holy home.