PROMETHEUS. More wilt thou wonder when the rest thou hearest— What arts for them, what methods I devised. Foremost was this: if any man fell sick, No aiding art he knew, no saving food, No curing oil nor draught, but all in lack Of remedies they dwindled, till I taught The medicinal blending of soft drugs, Whereby they ward each sickness from their side. I ranged for them the methods manifold Of the diviner’s art; I first discerned Which of night’s visions hold a truth for day, I read for them the lore of mystic sounds, Inscrutable before; the omens seen Which bless or ban a journey, and the flight Of crook-clawed birds, did I make clear to man— And how they soar upon the right, for weal, How, on the left, for evil; how they dwell, Each in its kind, and what their loves and hates, And which can flock and roost in harmony. From me, men learned what deep significance Lay in the smoothness of the entrails set For sacrifice, and which, of various hues, Showed them a gift accepted of the gods; They learned what streaked and varied comeliness Of gall and liver told; I led them, too, (By passing thro’ the flame the thigh-bones, wrapt In rolls of fat, and th’ undivided chine), Unto the mystic and perplexing lore Of omens; and I cleared unto their eyes The forecasts, dim and indistinct before, Shown in the flickering aspect of a flame. Of these, enough is said. The other boons, Stored in the womb of earth, in aid of men— Copper and iron, silver, gold withal— Who dares affirm he found them ere I found? None—well I know—save who would babble lies! Know thou, in compass of a single phrase— All arts, for mortals’ use, Prometheus gave. CHORUS. Nay, aid not mortal men beyond their due, Holding too light a reckoning of thyself And of thine own distress: good hope have I To see thee once again from fetters free And matched with Zeus in parity of power. PROMETHEUS. Not yet nor thus hath Fate ordained the end— Not until age-long pains and countless woes Have bent and bowed me, shall my shackles fall; Art strives too feebly against destiny. CHORUS. But what hand rules the helm of destiny? PROMETHEUS. The triform Fates, and Furies unforgiving. CHORUS. Then is the power of Zeus more weak than theirs? PROMETHEUS. He may not shun the fate ordained for him. CHORUS. What is ordained for him, save endless rule? PROMETHEUS. Seek not for answer: this thou may’st not learn. CHORUS. Surely thy silence hides some solemn thing. PROMETHEUS. Think on some other theme: ’tis not the hour, This secret to unveil; in deepest dark Be it concealed: by guarding it shall I Escape at last from bonds, and scorn, and pain.