VIII
IN THE GARDEN
EPIMETHEUS. The storm is past, but it hath left behind it Ruin and desolation. All the walks Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are silent; The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead; The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain, The melancholy reeds whisper together As if some dreadful deed had been committed They dare not name, and all the air is heavy With an unspoken sorrow! Premonitions, Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen!
PANDORA (coming from the house). O Epimetheus, I no longer dare To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy voice, Being no longer worthy of thy love.
EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?
PANDORA. Forgive me not, but kill me.
EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?
PANDORA. I pray for death, not pardon.
EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?
PANDORA. I dare not speak of it.