The angry gods have hid it from our eyes.
Else had one day bestow’d sufficient cheer,
And, though inactive, fed thee through the year.
Then might thy hand [33]have laid the rudder by,
In blackening smoke for ever hung on high;
Then had the labouring ox foregone the soil,
And patient mules had found reprieve from toil.
But Jove conceal’d our food: incensed at heart,
Since [34]mock’d by wise Prometheus’ wily art.
Sore ills to man devised the heavenly Sire,