HEPHAESTHUS. Ye twain, rude MIGHT and FORCE, have done your work To the perfect end; but I--my heart shrinks back From the harsh task to nail a kindred god[n3] To this storm-battered crag. Yet dare I must. Where Jove commands, whoso neglects rebels, And pays the traitor's fine. High-counselled son Of right-decreeing Themis,[n4] I force myself No less than thee, when to this friendless rock With iron bonds I chain thee, where nor shape Nor voice of wandering mortal shall relieve Thy lonely watch; but the fierce-burning sun Shall parch and bleach thy fresh complexion. Thou, When motley-mantled Night[f7] hath hid the day, Shalt greet the darkness, with how short a joy! For the morn's sun the nightly dew shall scatter, And thou be pierced again with the same pricks Of endless woe--and saviour shall be none.[n5] Such fruits thy forward love to men hath wrought thee. Thyself a god, the wrath of gods to thee Seemed little, and to men thou didst dispense Forbidden gifts. For this thou shalt keep watch {184} On this delightless rock, fixed and erect, With lid unsleeping, and with knee unbent. Alas! what groans and wails shalt thou pour forth, Fruitless. Jove is not weak that he should bend;[n6] For young authority must ever be Harsh and severe. MIGHT. Enough of words and tears. This god, whom all the gods detest, wilt thou Not hate, thou, whom his impious larceny Did chiefly injure? HEPHAESTHUS. But, my friend, my kinsman-- MIGHT. True, that respect; but the dread father's word Respect much more. Jove's word respect and fear. HEPHAESTHUS. Harsh is thy nature, and thy heart is full Of pitiless daring. MIGHT. Tears were wasted here, And labour lost is all concern for him. HEPHAESTHUS. O thrice-cursed trade, that e'er my hand should use it! MIGHT. Curse not thy craft; the cunning of thy hand Makes not his woes; he made them for himself. HEPHAESTHUS. Would that some other hand had drawn the lot To do this deed! MIGHT. All things may be, but this To dictate to the gods.[n7] There's one that's free, One only; Jove. HEPHAESTHUS. I know it, and am dumb. MIGHT. Then gird thee to the work, chain down the culprit, Lest Jove thy laggard zeal behold, and blame. HEPHAESTHUS. The irons here are ready. MIGHT. Take them, and strike Stout blows with the hammer; nail him to the rock. HEPHAESTHUS. The work speeds well, and lingers not. MIGHT. Strike! strike! With ring, and clamp, and wedge make sure the work. He hath a subtle wit will find itself A way where way is none. HEPHAESTHUS. This arm is fast. MIGHT. Then clasp this other. Let the sophist know, Against great Jove how dull a thing is wit. HEPHAESTHUS. None but the victim can reprove my zeal.