_Prom._ Think not it is through pride or stiff self-will That I am silent. But my heart is worn, Self-contemplating, as I see myself Thus outraged. Yet what other hand than mine Gave these young Gods in fulness all their gifts? But these I speak not of; for I should tell To you that know them. But those woes of men,[164] 450 List ye to them,—how they, before as babes, By me were roused to reason, taught to think; And this I say, not finding fault with men, But showing my good-will in all I gave. For first, though seeing, all in vain they saw, And hearing, heard not rightly. But, like forms Of phantom-dreams, throughout their life's whole length They muddled all at random; did not know Houses of brick that catch the sunlight's warmth, Nor yet the work of carpentry. They dwelt In hollowed holes, like swarms of tiny ants, 460 In sunless depths of caverns; and they had No certain signs of winter, nor of spring Flower-laden, nor of summer with her fruits; But without counsel fared their whole life long, Until I showed the risings of the stars, And settings hard to recognise.[165] And I Found Number for them, chief device of all, *Groupings of letters, Memory's handmaid that, And mother of the Muses.[166] And I first Bound in the yoke wild steeds, submissive made 470 Or to the collar or men's limbs, that so They might in man's place bear his greatest toils; And horses trained to love the rein I yoked To chariots, glory of wealth's pride of state;[167] Nor was it any one but I that found Sea-crossing, canvas-wingèd cars of ships: Such rare designs inventing (wretched me!) For mortal men, I yet have no device By which to free myself from this my woe.[168] _Chor._ Foul shame thou sufferest: of thy sense bereaved, 480 Thou errest greatly: and, like leech unskilled, Thou losest heart when smitten with disease, And know'st not how to find the remedies Wherewith to heal thine own soul's sicknesses.