Antigone (160-244)

My fellow citizens! First, the gods, after tossing the fate of our city on wild waves, have once more righted it. Second, I have ordered you through my messengers to come here

apart from all the rest, because I knew, first of all, how constant was your reverence for the power of the throne of Laius; how, again, you were reverent, when Oedipus was guiding our city; and lastly, how, when he was dead, you still maintained loyal thoughts towards his children.

Since, then, these latter have fallen in one day by a twofold doom—each striking, each struck, both with the stain of a brother’s murder—I now possess all the power and the throne according to my kinship with the dead.

Now, it is impossible to know fully any man’s character, will, or judgment, until he has been proved by the test of rule and law-giving. For if anyone who directs the entire city does not cling to the best and wisest plans,

but because of some fear keeps his lips locked, then, in my judgment, he is and has long been the most cowardly traitor. And if any man thinks a friend more important than his fatherland, that man, I say, is of no account. Zeus, god who sees all things always, be my witness—

I would not be silent if I saw ruin, instead of safety, marching upon the citizens. Nor would I ever make a man who is hostile to my country a friend to myself, because I know this, that our country is the ship that bears us safe, and that only when

we sail her on a straight course can we make true friends. Such are the rules by which I strengthen this city. Akin to these is the edict which I have now published to the citizenry concerning the sons of Oedipus: Eteocles, who fell fighting

in behalf of our city and who excelled all in battle, they shall entomb and heap up every sacred offering that descends to the noblest of the dead below. But as for his brother, Polyneices, I mean, who on his return from exile wanted to burn to the ground

the city of his fathers and his race’s gods, and wanted to feed on kindred blood and lead the remnant into slavery—it has been proclaimed to the city that no one shall give him funeral honors or lamentation,

but all must leave him unburied and a sight of shame, with his body there for birds and dogs to eat. This is my will, and never will I allow the traitor to stand in honor before the just. But whoever has good will to Thebes,

he shall be honored by me in death as in life.

That is your will, Creon, towards this city’s enemy and its friend. And the power is yours, I believe, to make use of every law whatsoever, both concerning the dead and all us who live.

See, then, that you be guardians of my commands.

Lay the weight of this task on some younger man.

That is not what I meant—the guards for the corpse are already in place.

Then what is this other command that you would give?

That you not give way to the breakers of my commands.

There is no one so foolish as to crave death.

I assure you, that is the wage for disobedience. Yet by just the hope of it, money has many times corrupted men.

My king, I will not say that I arrive breathless because of speed, or from the action of a swift foot.

For often I brought myself to a stop because of my thoughts, and wheeled round in my path to return. My mind was telling me many things: Fool, why do you go to where your arrival will mean your punishment? Idiot, are you dallying again? If Creon learns it from another, must you not suffer for it?

So debating, I made my way unhurriedly, slow, and thus a short road was made long. At last, however, the view prevailed that I should come here—to you. Even if my report brings no good, still will I tell you,

since I come with a good grip on one hope, that I can suffer nothing except what is my fate.

And what is it that so disheartens you?

I want to tell you first about myself—I did not do the deed, nor did I see the doer,

so it would be wrong that I should come to any harm.

Like a bowman you aim well at your target from a distance, and all around you hedge yourself off well from the deed. It is clear that you have some unheard-of thing to tell.

That I do, for terrible news imposes great hesitation.

Then tell it, will you, and so unburdened go away?