PROMETHEUS BOUND.
11
Prometheus.
Haïdes, the host of death,
Into baseless Tartarus,
He had hurl'd me shackled thus
Cruelly, infrangibly!
Then, neither god nor man could be
Rejoicer o'er Prometheus' woes:
Now, motion'd by each wind that blows,
I gladden—wretched me!—my foes.
Chorus.
Who by thy fate unsadden'd?
Who of the gods, save Jove? He, ever lending
To wrath his soul unbending,
Ruleth the heav'ns, nor e'er shall cease from ill,
Until his heart be satiate, or until
By fraud the sceptre's strength be wrested from his will.
