IO.
Yet somewhat add; forewarn me in my woe
What time shall bring my wandering to its goal?
PROMETHEUS.
Fore-knowledge is fore-sorrow; ask it not.
IO.
Nay, hide not from me destiny’s decree.
PROMETHEUS.
I grudge thee not the gift which I withhold.
IO.
Then wherefore tarry ere thou tell me all?
PROMETHEUS.
Nothing I grudge, but would not rack thy soul.
IO.
Be not compassionate beyond my wish.
PROMETHEUS.
Well, thou art fain, and I will speak. Attend!
CHORUS.
Nay—ere thou speak, hear me, bestow on me
A portion of the grace of granted prayers.
First let us learn how Io’s frenzy came—
(She telling her disasters manifold)
Then of their sequel let her know from thee.
PROMETHEUS.
Well were it, Io, thus to do their will—
Right well! they are the sisters of thy sire.
’Tis worth the waste and effluence of time,
To tell, with tears of perfect moan, the doom
Of sorrows that have fallen, when ’tis sure
The listeners will greet the tale with tears.