ill spare me. Keep thy sword;
Lest I be ravished after thou art slain.

_Adr._ Instruct me, gods, what shall Adrastus do?

_Cre._ Do what thou wilt, when she is dead; my soldiers
With numbers will o'erpower thee. Is't thy wish
Eurydice should fall before thee?

_Adr._ Traitor, no;
Better that thou, and I, and all mankind,
Should be no more.

_Cre._ Then cast thy sword away,
And yield thee to my mercy, or I strike.

_Adr._ Hold thy raised arm; give me a moment's pause.
My father, when he blest me, gave me this:
My son, said he, let this be thy last refuge;
If thou forego'st it, misery attends thee.--
Yet love now charms it from me; which in all
The hazards of my life I never lost.
'Tis thine, my faithful sword; my only trust;
Though my heart tells me that the gift is fatal. [_Gives it._

_Cre._ Fatal! yes, foolish love-sick prince, it shall:
Thy arrogance, thy scorn, my wound's remembrance.
Turn all at once the fatal point upon thee.--
Pyracmon to the palace; dispatch
The king; hang Haemon up, for he is loyal,
And will oppose me.--Come, sir, are you ready?

_Adr._ Yes, villain, for whatever thou canst dare.

_Eur._ Hold, Creon, or through me, through me you wound.

_Adr._ Off, madam, or we perish both; behold
I'm not unarmed, my poniard's in my hand;
Therefore, away.

_Eur._ I'll guard your life with mine.

_Cre._ Die both, then; there is now no time for dallying.
[_Kills_ EURYDICE.

_Eur._ Ah, prince, farewell! farewell, my dear Adrastus! [_Dies._

_Adr._ Unheard-of monster! eldest-born of hell!
Down, to thy primitive flame. [_Stabs_ CREON.

_Cre._ Help, soldiers, help;
Revenge me.

_Adr._ More; yet more; a thousand wounds!
I'll stamp thee still, thus, to the gaping furies.
[ADRASTUS _falls, killed by the soldiers._

_Enter_ HAEMON, _Guards, with_ ALCANDER _and_ PYRACMON _bound; the
Assassins are driven off._

O Haemon, I am slain; nor need I name
The inhuman author of all villainies;
There he lies gasping.

_Cre._ If I must plunge in flames,
Burn first my arm; base instrument, unfit
To act the dictates of my daring mind;
Burn, burn for ever, O weak substitute
Of that, the god, ambition. [_Dies._

_Adr._ She's gone;--O deadly marksman, in the heart!
Yet in the pangs of death she grasps my hand;
Her lips too tremble, as if she woul