Never, I tell you, I will never shrink from a stranger, lost as you are now, or fail to lend a hand to save a life. I am only a man, well I know, and I have no more power over tomorrow, Oedipus, than you.
Given time, you'll see this well, I know: you do yourself no good, not now, not years ago, indulging your rage despite the pleas of loved ones— blind rage has always been your ruin.
You have come to a city that practices justice, that sanctions nothing without law, but you, you flout our authorities, make your inroads, seize your prizes, commandeer at will! Tell me, did you imagine Athens stripped of men, peopled by slaves? Myself worth nothing?
My isolation leaves me weak, however just my cause. But opposing you, old as I am, I'll stop at nothing, match you blow for blow. A mans' anger can never age and fade away, not until he dies. The dead alone feel no pain.
And if, once I'd come to the world of pain, as come I did, I fell to blows with my father, cut him down in blood— blind to what I was doing, blind to whom I killed— how could you condemn that involuntary act with any sense of justice?
So now I cry to those Great Goddesses, I beg them, I storm them with my prayers— Come to the rescue, fight for me, my champions! So you can learn your lesson, Creon, learn what breed of men stands guard around this city.
Like a seer I sense the glory in these struggles— Rush me, wing me into the whirlwind, O dear god, like a dove at the thunderheads of heaven I'd look down I'd scan these struggles, I would see their glory.
May the gods reward you just as I desire, you and your great country. Here among you, you alone of all mankind— I have discovered reverence, humanity and lips that never lie.
Not to be born is best when all is reckoned in, but once a man has seen the light the next best thing, by far, is to go back back where he came from, quickly as he can.
You—die! Die and be damned! I spit on you! Out!— your father cuts you off! Corruption—scum of the earth!— out!—and pack these curses I call down upon your head: never to win you mother-country with your spear, never return to Argos ringed with hills— Die! Die by your own blood brother's hand—die!— killing the very man who drove you out! So I curse your life out!
Dearest friend, you and your country and your loyal followers, may you be blessed with greatness, and in your great day remember me, the dead, the root of all your greatness, everlasting, ever-new.