PROMETHEUS. Hear Zeus or not, I hear and know thee well, Daughter of Inachus; I know thee driven, Stung by the gadfly, mazed with agony. Ay, thou art she whose beauty fired the breast Of Zeus with passion; she whom Hera’s hate Now harasses o’er leagues and leagues of land. IO. Alack, thou namest Inachus my sire! Wottest thou of him? how, from lips of pain, Comes to my woeful ears truth’s very strain? How knowest thou the curse, the burning fire The god-sent, piercing pest that stings and clings? Ah me! in frenzied, foodless wanderings Hither I come, and on me from on high Lies Hera’s angry craft! Ah, men unblest! Not one there is, not one, that is unblest as I. But thou—tell me the rest! Utter the rede of woes to come for me; Utter the aid, the cure, if aid or cure there be! PROMETHEUS. Lo, clearly will I show forth all thy quest— Not in dark speech, but with such simple phrase As doth befit the utterance of a friend. I am Prometheus, who gave fire to men. IO. O daring, proven champion of man’s race, What sin, Prometheus, dost thou thus atone? PROMETHEUS. One moment since, I told my woes and ceased. IO. Then should I plead my suit to thee in vain? PROMETHEUS. Nay, speak thy need; nought would I hide from thee. IO. Pronounce who nailed thee to the rocky cleft. PROMETHEUS. Zeus, by intent; Hephaestus, by his hand. IO. For what wrongdoing do these pains atone? PROMETHEUS. What I have said, is said; suffice it thee! IO. Yet somewhat add; forewarn me in my woe What time shall bring my wandering to its goal? PROMETHEUS. Fore-knowledge is fore-sorrow; ask it not. IO. Nay, hide not from me destiny’s decree. PROMETHEUS. I grudge thee not the gift which I withhold. IO. Then wherefore tarry ere thou tell me all? PROMETHEUS. Nothing I grudge, but would not rack thy soul. IO. Be not compassionate beyond my wish. PROMETHEUS. Well, thou art fain, and I will speak. Attend! CHORUS. Nay—ere thou speak, hear me, bestow on me A portion of the grace of granted prayers. First let us learn how Io’s frenzy came— (She telling her disasters manifold) Then of their sequel let her know from thee. PROMETHEUS. Well were it, Io, thus to do their will— Right well! they are the sisters of thy sire. ’Tis worth the waste and effluence of time, To tell, with tears of perfect moan, the doom Of sorrows that have fallen, when ’tis sure The listeners will greet the tale with tears.