Crows feed on nothing else: plenty of fools;
A glut of them in Thebes.
And fortune still takes care they should be seen:
She places 'em aloft, o'th' topmost spoke
Of all her wheel. Fools are the daily work
Of nature; her vocation; if she form
A man, she loses by't, 'tis too expensive;
'Twould make ten fools: A man's a prodigy.

_Eur._ That is, a Creon: O thou black detractor,
Who spit'st thy venom against gods and men!
Thou enemy of eyes;
Thou, who lov'st nothing but what nothing loves,
And that's thyself; who hast conspired against
My life and fame, to make me loathed by all,
And only fit for thee.
But for Adrastus' death,--good Gods, his death!--
What curse shall I invent?

_Dioc._ No more: he's here.

_Eur._ He shall be ever here.
He who would give his life, give up his fame--

_Enter_ ADRASTUS.

If all the excellence of woman-kind
Were mine;--No, 'tis too little all for him:
Were I made up of endless, endless joys!

_Adr._ And so thou art:
The man, who loves like me,
Would think even infamy, the worst of ills,
Were cheaply purchased, were thy love the price.
Uncrowned, a captive, nothing left but honour,--
'Tis the last thing a prince should throw away;
But when the storm grows loud, and threatens love,
Throw even that o'er-board; for love's the jewel,
And last it must be kept.

_Cre._ [_To_ DIOC.] Work him, be sure,
To rage; he is passionate;
Make him the aggressor.

_Dioc._ O false love, false honour!

_Cre._ Dissembled both, and false!

_Adr._ Darest thou say this to me?

_Cre._ To you! why what are you, that I should fear you?
I am not Laius. Hear me, prince of Argos;
You give what's nothing, when you give your honour:
'Tis gone; 'tis lost in battle. For your love,
Vows made in wine are not so false as that:
You killed her father; you confessed you did:
A mighty argument to prove your passion to the daughter!

_Adr._ [_Aside._]
Gods, must I bear this brand, and not retort
The lye to his foul throat!

_Dioc._ Basely you killed him.

_Adr._ [_Aside._]
O, I burn inward: my blood's all on fire!
Alcides, when the poisoned shirt sate closest,
Had but an ague-fit to this my fever.
Yet, for Eurydice, even this I'll suffer,
To free my love.--Well then, I killed him basely.

_Cre._ Fairly, I'm sure, you could not.

_Dioc._ Nor alone.

_Cre._ You had your fellow thieves about you, prince;
They conquered, and you killed.

_Adr._ [_Aside._] Down, swelling heart!
'Tis for thy prin