Guard: May I speak? Or shall I just turn and go?
Creon: Do you not know that even now your voice offends?
Guard: Is your smart in the ears or in the soul?
Creon: And why would you define the seat of my pain?
Guard: The doer vexes your mind, I your ears.
Creon: Ah, you are a born babbler, it's easy to see.
Guard: Maybe but never the doer of this deed.
Creon: More too, the seller of your life for silver.
Guard: Alas, it's truly sad that he who judges should misjudge.
Ismene: But will you slay the betrothed of your own son?
Creon: There are other fields for him to plow.