CHORUS.
What cure couldst thou discover for this curse?
PROMETHEUS.
Blind hopes I sent to nestle in man’s heart.
CHORUS.
This was a goodly gift thou gavest them.
PROMETHEUS.
Yet more I gave them, even the boon of fire.
CHORUS.
What? radiant fire, to things ephemeral?
PROMETHEUS.
Yea—many an art too shall they learn thereby!
CHORUS.
Then, upon imputation of such guilt,
Doth Zeus without surcease torment thee thus?
Is there no limit to thy course of pain?
PROMETHEUS.
None, till his own will shall decree an end.
CHORUS.
And how shall he decree it? say, what hope?
Seëst thou not thy sin? yet of that sin
It irks me sore to speak, as thee to hear.
Nay, no more words hereof; bethink thee now,
From this ordeal how to find release.
PROMETHEUS.
Easy it is, for one whose foot is set
Outside the slough of pain, to lesson well
With admonitions him who lies therein.
With perfect knowledge did I all I did,
I willed to sin, and sinned, I own it all—
I championed men, unto my proper pain.
Yet scarce I deemed that, in such cruel doom,
Withering upon this skyey precipice,
I should inherit lonely mountain crags,
Here, in a vast tin-neighboured solitude.
Yet list not to lament my present pains,
But, stepping from your cars unto the ground,
Listen, the while I tell the future fates
Now drawing near, until ye know the whole.
Grant ye, O grant my prayer, be pitiful
To one now racked with woe! the doom of pain
Wanders, but settles, soon or late, on all.