But none like mine.
O thou, who named my Argive home, declare
What ills await me yet; what end; what hope?
If hope there be for Io.
Chorus.
I pray thee speak to the weary way-worn maid.
Prometheus.
I’ll tell thee all thy wish, not in enigmas
Tangled and dark, but in plain phrase, as friend
Should speak to friend. Thou see’st Prometheus, who