No grief that can be told is felt for thee.
Prometheus ill-painted. BY MR. COWLEY.
How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here.
Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands,
He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands.
It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now.