Whither, from Zeus's infinite,
I can have power to flee.
Prometheus. Yet Zeus, howbeit most absolute of will,
Shall turn to meekness,—such a marriage-rite
He holds in preparation, which anon
Shall thrust him headlong from his gerent seat,
And leave no track behind! and so the curse
His father Chronos muttered in his fall,
As he fell from his ancient throne and cursed,
Shall be accomplished wholly—no escape
From all this ruin shall the filial Zeus
Have granted to him, from one of all his gods,
Unless I teach it—I, the refuge, know,
And I, the means—Now, therefore, let him sit
And brave the imminent doom, and fix his faith
On his supernal noises, hurtling on
With restless hand, the bolt that breathes out fire—
For these things shall not help him—none of them—
Nor hinder his perdition when he falls
To shame, and lower than patience,—such a foe,
He doth himself prepare against himself,
A wonder of unconquerable Hate,
A new deviser of a nobler fire
Than shines in lightnings, and of grander sound
Than aught the thunder rolls,—outthundering it,—
Of power to shatter in Poseidon's fist
The trident-spear, which, while it plagues the sea,
Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, and Zeus,
By this destruction, lost, shall mete at length
The gulf which severs rule from servitude.
Chorus. Thou makest threats for Zeus of thy desires.
