Was to weak man of priceless boons the giver,
Which e’en the supreme tyrant could not sever
From us, once given; we own him in our food
And in our blazing hearth’s beatitude;
Yet still his cry was “Pain, ever forever!”
Shall we a later, harder doom rehearse?
One came whose art men’s dread of are repressed:
Mangled and writhing limb he lulled to rest,
And stingless left the old Semitic curse;
Him, too, for these blest gifts did Zeus amerce?