ANTISTROPHE I. For thus old Wisdom speaks: Thy life 'tis sweet to cherish, and while the length Of years is thine, thy heart with cheerful hopes And lightsome joys to feed. But thee--ah me! my blood runs cold to see thee, Pierced to the marrow with a thousand pains. Not fearing Jove, Self-willed thou hast respect to man, Prometheus, Much more than man deserveth. STROPHE II. For what is man?[f12] behold! Can he requite thy love--child of a day-- Or help thy extreme need? Hast thou not seen The blind and aimless strivings, The barren blank endeavour, The pithless deeds, of the fleeting dreamlike race? Never, O nevermore, May mortal wit Jove's ordered plan deceive. ANTISTROPHE II. This lore my heart hath learned From sight of thee, and thy sharp pains, Prometheus. Alas! what diverse strain I sang thee then, Around the bridal chamber, And around the bridal bath, When thou my sister fair, Hesione, Won by rich gifts didst lead[n37] From Ocean's caves thy spousal bed to share. [_Enter_ IO.[n38] IO. What land is this?--what race of mortals Owns this desert? who art thou, {198} Rock-bound with these wintry fetters, And for what crime tortured thus? Worn and weary with far travel, Tell me where my feet have borne me! O pain! pain! pain! it stings and goads me again, The fateful brize!--save me, O Earth![n39]--Avaunt Thou horrible shadow of the Earth-born Argus! Could not the grave close up thy hundred eyes, But thou must come, Haunting my path with thy suspicious look, Unhoused from Hades? Avaunt! avaunt!--why wilt thou hound my track, The famished wanderer on the waste sea-shore? STROPHE. Pipe not thy sounding wax-compacted reed With drowsy drone at me! Ah wretched me! Wandering, still wandering o'er wide Earth, and driven Where? where? O tell me where? O Son of Kronos, in what damned sin Being caught hast thou to misery yoked me thus, Pricked me to desperation, and my heart Pierced with thy furious goads? Blast me with lightnings! bury me in Earth! To the gape Of greedy sea-monsters give me! Hear, O hear My prayer, O King! Enough, enough, these errant toils have tried me; And yet no rest I find: nor when, nor where These woes shall cease may know. CHORUS.[n40] Dost hear the plaint of the ox-horned maid? PROMETHEUS. How should I not? the Inachian maid who knows not, Stung by the god-sent brize? the maid who smote Jove's lustful heart with love: and his harsh spouse Hounds her o'er Earth with chase interminable.