PROMETHEUS. None, till his own will shall decree an end. CHORUS. And how shall he decree it? say, what hope? Seëst thou not thy sin? yet of that sin It irks me sore to speak, as thee to hear. Nay, no more words hereof; bethink thee now, From this ordeal how to find release. PROMETHEUS. Easy it is, for one whose foot is set Outside the slough of pain, to lesson well With admonitions him who lies therein. With perfect knowledge did I all I did, I willed to sin, and sinned, I own it all— I championed men, unto my proper pain. Yet scarce I deemed that, in such cruel doom, Withering upon this skyey precipice, I should inherit lonely mountain crags, Here, in a vast tin-neighboured solitude. Yet list not to lament my present pains, But, stepping from your cars unto the ground, Listen, the while I tell the future fates Now drawing near, until ye know the whole. Grant ye, O grant my prayer, be pitiful To one now racked with woe! the doom of pain Wanders, but settles, soon or late, on all. CHORUS. To willing hearts, and schooled to feel, Prometheus, came thy tongue’s appeal; Therefore we leave, with lightsome tread, The flying cars in which we sped— We leave the stainless virgin air Where winged creatures float and fare, And by thy side, on rocky land, Thus gently we alight and stand, Willing, from end to end, to know Thine history of woe. The CHORUS alight from their winged cars. Enter OCEANUS mounted on a griffin. OCEANUS. Thus, over leagues and leagues of space I come, Prometheus, to thy place— By will alone, not rein, I guide The winged thing on which I ride; And much, be sure, I mourn thy case— Kinship is Pity’s bond, I trow; And, wert thou not akin, I vow None other should have more than thou Of my compassion’s grace! ’Tis said, and shall be proved; no skill Have I to gloze and feign goodwill! Name but some mode of helpfulness, And thou wilt in a trice confess That I, Oceanus, am best Of all thy friends, and trustiest. PROMETHEUS. Ho, what a sight of marvel! what, thou too Comest to contemplate my pains, and darest— (Yet how, I wot not!) leaving far behind The circling tide, thy namefellow, and those Rock-arched, self-hollowed caverns—thus to come Unto this land, whose womb bears iron ore? Art come to see my lot, resent with me The ills I bear? Well, gaze thy fill! behold Me, friend of Zeus, part-author of his power— Mark, in what ruthlessness he bows me down!