_Prometheus._ Hearken the rest, And marvel further, what more arts and means I did invent, this greatest: if a man Fell sick there was no cure, nor esculent, Nor chrism, nor liquid, but for lack of drugs Men pined and wasted, till I showed them all Those mixtures of emollient remedies, Whereby they might be rescued from disease, I fixed the various rules of mantic art, Discerned the vision from the common dream, Instructed them in vocal auguries, Hard to interpret, and defined as plain The wayside omens--flights of crook-clawed birds-- Showed which are, by their nature, fortunate, And which not so, and what the food of each, And what the hates, affections, social needs, Of all to one another,--taught what sign Of visceral lightness, colored to a shade, May charm the genial gods, and what fair spots Commend the lung and liver. Burning so The limbs encased in fat, and the long chine, I led my mortals on to an art abstruse, And cleared their eyes to the image in the fire, Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now of this: For the other helps of man hid underground, The iron and the brass, silver and gold, Can any dare affirm he found them out Before me? None, I know, unless he choose To lie in his vaunt. In one word learn the whole: That all arts come to mortals from Prometheus. Aeschylus: _Prometheus_. [Mrs. Browning's translation.] 2 (_For comparison with the preceding_)