_Adr._ O, I charge thee hold!-- Hence from my presence, all; he's not my friend That disobeys.--See, art thou now appeased? [_Exeunt Attendants._ Or is there aught else yet remains to do, That can atone thee? slake thy thirst of blood With mine; but save, O save that innocent wretch!
_Cre._ Forego thy sword, and yield thyself my prisoner.
_Eur._ Yet, while there's any dawn of hope to save Thy precious life, my dear Adrastus, Whate'er thou dost, deliver not thy sword; With that thou may'st get off, tho' odds oppose thee. For me, O fear not; no, he dares not touch me; His horrid love will spare me. Keep thy sword; Lest I be ravished after thou art slain.
_Adr._ Instruct me, gods, what shall Adrastus do?
_Cre._ Do what thou wilt, when she is dead; my soldiers With numbers will o'erpower thee. Is't thy wish Eurydice should fall before thee?
_Adr._ Traitor, no; Better that thou, and I, and all mankind, Should be no more.
_Cre._ Then cast thy sword away, And yield thee to my mercy, or I strike.
_Adr._ Hold thy raised arm; give me a moment's pause. My father, when he blest me, gave me this: My son, said he, let this be thy last refuge; If thou forego'st it, misery attends thee.-- Yet love now charms it from me; which in all The hazards of my life I never lost. 'Tis thine, my faithful sword; my only trust; Though my heart tells me that the gift is fatal. [_Gives it._
_Cre._ Fatal! yes, foolish love-sick prince, it shall: Thy arrogance, thy scorn, my wound's remembrance. Turn all at once the fatal point upon thee.-- Pyracmon to the palace; dispatch The king; hang Hæmon up, for he is loyal, And will oppose me.--Come, sir, are you ready?
_Adr._ Yes, villain, for whatever thou canst dare.
_Eur._ Hold, Creon, or through me, through me you wound.
_Adr._ Off, madam, or we perish both; behold I'm not unarmed, my poniard's in my hand; Therefore, away.
_Cre._ Die both, then; there is now no time for dallying. [_Kills_ EURYDICE.
_Eur._ Ah, prince, farewell! farewell, my dear Adrastus! [_Dies._
_Adr._ Unheard-of monster! eldest-born of hell! Down, to thy primitive flame. [_Stabs_ CREON.
_Adr._ More; yet more; a thousand wounds! I'll stamp thee still, thus, to the gaping furies. [ADRASTUS _falls, killed by the soldiers._