PROMETHEUS BOUND
CHORUS
A strange thing is befallen thee! where are they,
Thy wits? thou'rt lost, and like a sorry leech
Fall'n sick, thou staggerest, impotent to hit
The medicine that shall meet thine own disease.
PROMETHEUS
Hearken the rest, and thou wilt wonder more,
Such arts and ways my wisdom reach'd unto.
And this in chief: did any man fall sick,
Was no deliverance, either in things eaten,
Plaster or potion, but their sap and substance 480
Dwindled for lack of medicine, till I taught them
The sage commixtures of beneficent balms,
For all disorders sovereign. I defined
Ways many of divination: also dreams
I first did spell, discerning which foreshadow'd
Matter of truth. I made men understand
Inapprehensible voices: ominous
Conjunctions by the way, the curious flight
35
