Creon: You alone, of all the people in Thebes, see things that way.
Antigone: They see it just that way but defer to you and keep their tongues in leash.
Creon: And aren’t you ashamed to differ so from them? So disloyal!
Antigone: Not ashamed for a moment, not to honor my brother, my own flesh and blood.
Creon: Wasn’t Eteocles a brother too—cut down, facing him?
Antigone: Brother, yes, by the same mother, the same father.
Creon: Then how can you render his enemy such honors, such impieties in his eyes?
Antigone: He will never testify to that, Eteocles dead and buried.
Creon: He will—if you honor the traitor just as much as him.
Antigone: But it was his brother, not some slave that died—
Creon: Ravaging our country!—but Eteocles died fighting in our behalf.
Antigone: No matter—Death longs for the same rites for all.
Creon: Never the same for the patriot and the traitor.
Antigone: Who, Creon, who on earth can say the ones below don’t find this pure and uncorrupt?
Creon: Never. Once an enemy, never a friend, not even after death.
Antigone: I was born to join in love, not hate—that is my nature.
Creon: Go down below and love, if love you must—love the dead! While I’m alive, no woman is going to lord it over me.