It is. ’Tis not. Unhappy that I am,
I know not.—Yes, ’tis she. For drawing near
She greets me with bright glances, and declares
Beyond a doubt, Ismenè’s self is here.
Oed. What say’st thou, daughter?
Ant. That I see thy child,
My sister. Soon her voice will make thee sure.
Enter Ismene.
Ismene. Father and sister!—names for ever dear! Hard hath it been to find you, yea, and hard I feel it now to look on you for grief.
Oed. Child, art thou here?
Ism. Father! O sight of pain!
Oed. Offspring and sister!
Ism. Woe for thy dark fate!
Oed. Hast thou come, daughter?
Ism. On a troublous way.
Oed. Touch me, my child!
Ism. I give a hand to both.
Oed. To her and me?
Ism. Three linked in one sad knot.
Oed. Child, wherefore art thou come?
Ism. In care for thee.
Oed. Because you missed me?
Ism. Ay, and to bring thee tidings,
With the only slave whom I could trust.
Oed. And they,
Thy brethren, what of them? Were they not there
To take this journey for their father’s good?
Ism. Ask not of them. Dire deeds are theirs to-day.
Oed. How in all points their life obeys the law
Of Egypt, where the men keep house and weave
Sitting within-doors, while the wives abroad
Provide with ceaseless toil the means of life.
So in your case, my daughters, they who should
Have ta’en this burden on them, bide at home
Like maidens, while ye take their place, and lighten
My miseries by your toil. Antigone,
E’er since her childhood ended, and her frame
