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Must I say more to aggravate thy rage?

Say all thou wilt; it will be but waste of breath.

I say thou livest with thy nearest kin

In infamy, unwitting in thy shame.

Think’st thou for aye unscathed to wag thy tongue?

Yea, if the might of truth can aught prevail.

With other men, but not with thee, for thou

In ear, wit, eye, in everything art blind.

Poor fool to utter gibes at me which all

Here present will cast back on thee ere long.

Offspring of endless Night, thou hast no power

O’er me or any man who sees the sun.

No, for thy weird is not to fall by me.

I leave to Apollo what concerns the god.

Is this a plot of Creon, or thine own?