Prometheus, or whoever ’twas that made us,
Had his head turned with natural history:
All excellent contrivance, but betraying
Commonness and complexity. Well! well!
No need of my philosophies in Scyros—
War must have motive, and the men I rule
Are simple and contented with their lot.
None in my land would wish an atom changed:
Were even Achilles here ’twould be no wonder
If he had caught our temper.