PROMETHEUS.
Ill would’st thou bear these agonies of mine—
Mine, with whose fate it standeth not to win
The goal of death, which were release from pain!
Now, there is set no limit to my woe
Till Zeus be hurled from his omnipotence.
IO.
Zeus hurled from pride of place! Can such things be?
PROMETHEUS.
Thou wert full fain, methinks, to see that sight!
IO.
Even so—his overthrow who wrought my pain.
PROMETHEUS.
Then may’st thou know thereof; such fall shall be.
IO.
And who shall wrench the sceptre from his hand?
PROMETHEUS.
By his own mindless counsels shall he fall.
IO.
And how? unless the telling harm, say on!
PROMETHEUS.
Wooing a bride, his ruin he shall win.
IO.
Goddess, or mortal? tell me, if thou may’st.