PROMETHEUS. Deem not that I in pride or wilful scorn Restrain my speech; ’tis wistful memory That rends my heart, when I behold myself Abased to wretchedness. To these new gods I and none other gave their lots of power In full attainment; no more words hereof I speak—the tale ye know. But listen now Unto the rede of mortals and their woes, And how their childish and unreasoning state Was changed by me to consciousness and thought. Yet not in blame of mortals will I speak, But as in proof of service wrought to them. For, in the outset, eyes they had and saw not; And ears they had but heard not; age on age, Like unsubstantial shapes in vision seen, They groped at random in the world of sense, Nor knew to link their building, brick with brick, Nor how to turn its aspect to the sun, Nor how to join the beams by carpentry, In hollowed caves they dwelt, as emmets dwell, Weak feathers for each blast, in sunless caves. Nor had they certain forecast of the cold, Nor of the advent of the flowery spring, Nor of the fruitful summer. All they wrought, Unreasoning they wrought, till I made clear The laws of rising stars, and inference dim, More hard to learn, of what their setting showed. I taught to them withal that art of arts, The lore of number, and the written word That giveth sense to sound, the tool wherewith The gift of memory was wrought in all, And so came art and song. I too was first To harness ’neath the yoke strong animals, Obedient made to collar and to weight, That they might bear whate’er of heaviest toil Mortals endured before. For chariots too I trained, and docile service of the rein, Steeds, the delight of wealth and pomp and pride. I too, none other, for seafarers wrought Their ocean-roaming canvas-wingèd cars. Such arts of craft did I, unhappy I, Contrive for mortals: now, no feint I have Whereby I may elude my present woe. CHORUS. A rueful doom is thine! distraught of soul, And all astray, and like some sorry leech Art thou, repining at thine own disease, Unskilled, unknowing of the needful cure.