CHORUS.
Sad is thy lot, to thy unwisdom due.
Now, like a bad physician that himself
Has into sickness fallen, thou dost despair
And hast no medicine for thine own disease.
PROMETHEUS.
Hear what remains, and thou wilt wonder more
At all the feats of my inventive mind.
Greatest of all was this; when they fell sick
Men had no help, no medicine edible,
Potion or ointment, but for lack of cure
Wasted away and perished, till my skill
Taught them to mix the juice of sovran herbs,
With which they now ward off all maladies.
Of divination many ways I traced,
Laid down the rules for telling which of dreams
Would be fulfilled, and of foreboding sounds
The mystery unfolded. Then I taught
What sights are ominous to wayfarers.
I showed which of the birds that wing the heavens
Were lucky, which unlucky, and what were
Their loves and hatreds and foregatherings.
Then what the flesh of victims signified,
Of its appearances which pleased the gods,
How shaped, how streaked each part behoved to be,
And the burnt offerings on the altar laid,
Thighs wrapped in fat and chine. I read the signs
Of sacrificial flames unread before.
More yet I did; the wealth that lurks for man
In earth's dark womb,—gold, silver, iron, brass,—
Who was it brought all this to light but I?
All others lie who would the honour claim.
In one short sentence a long tale is told
Alone Prometheus gave all arts to man.
CHORUS.
Take heed; be not to mortals overkind,
But to thyself in this dire strait unkind.
Good hope have I, one day to see thee stand
Free from those bonds and mate the power of Zeus.
PROMETHEUS.
Not yet that consummation fate ordains.
A thousand years of agony must pass
Before my tortured frame puts off this chain.
For skill is weak matched with necessity.
CHORUS.
Who, then, is pilot of necessity?