IO.
Alack, thou namest Inachus my sire!
Wottest thou of him? how, from lips of pain,
Comes to my woeful ears truth’s very strain?
How knowest thou the curse, the burning fire
The god-sent, piercing pest that stings and clings?
Ah me! in frenzied, foodless wanderings
Hither I come, and on me from on high
Lies Hera’s angry craft! Ah, men unblest!
Not one there is, not one, that is unblest as I.
But thou—tell me the rest!
Utter the rede of woes to come for me;
Utter the aid, the cure, if aid or cure there be!
PROMETHEUS.
Lo, clearly will I show forth all thy quest—
Not in dark speech, but with such simple phrase
As doth befit the utterance of a friend.
I am Prometheus, who gave fire to men.
IO.
O daring, proven champion of man’s race,
What sin, Prometheus, dost thou thus atone?
PROMETHEUS.
One moment since, I told my woes and ceased.
IO.
Then should I plead my suit to thee in vain?
PROMETHEUS.
Nay, speak thy need; nought would I hide from thee.
IO.
Pronounce who nailed thee to the rocky cleft.
PROMETHEUS.
Zeus, by intent; Hephaestus, by his hand.
IO.
For what wrongdoing do these pains atone?
PROMETHEUS.
What I have said, is said; suffice it thee!