IO. I will obey, And in plain speech my chanceful story tell; Though much it grieves me to retrace the source, {200} Whence sprung this god-sent pest, and of my shape Disfigurement abhorred. Night after night Strange dreams around my maiden pillow hovering Whispered soft temptings. "_O thrice-blessed maid,_ _Why pin'st thou thus in virgin loneliness,_ _When highest wedlock courts thee? Struck by the shaft_ _Of fond desire for thee Jove burns, and pants_ _To twine his loves with thine. Spurn not, O maid,_ _The proffered bed of Jove; but hie thee straight_ _To Lerne's bosomed mead_,[n42] _where are the sheep-folds_ _And ox-stalls of thy sire, that so the eye_ _Of Jove, being filled with thee, may cease from craving._" Such nightly dreams my restless couch possessed Till I, all tears, did force me to unfold The portent to my father. He to Pytho[f13] Sent frequent messengers, and to Dodona, Searching the pleasure of the gods; but they With various-woven phrase came back, and answers More doubtful than the quest. At length, a clear And unambiguous voice came to my father, Enjoining, with most strict command, to send me Far from my home, and from my country far, To the extreme bounds of Earth an outcast wanderer, Else that the fire-faced bolt of Jove should smite Our universal race. By such responses, Moved of oracular Loxias, my father Reluctant me reluctant drove from home, And shut the door against me. What he did He did perforce; Jove's bit was in his mouth. Forthwith my wit was frenzied, and my form Assumed the brute. With maniac bound I rushed, Horned as thou see'st, and with the sharp-mouthed sting Of gad-fly pricked infuriate to the cliff Of Lerne, and Cenchréa's limpid wave; While Argus, Earth-born cow-herd, hundred-eyed, Followed the winding traces of my path With sharp observance. Him swift-swooping Fate Snatched unexpected from his sleepless guard; But I from land to land still wander on, Scourged by the wrath of Heaven's relentless Queen. Thou hast my tale; the sequel, if thou know'st it, Is thine to tell; but do not seek, I pray thee, {201} In pity for me, to drop soft lies; for nothing Is worse than the smooth craft of practised phrase. CHORUS. Enough, enough! Woe's me that ever Such voices of strange grief should rend my ear! That such a tale of woe, Insults, and wrongs, and horrors, should freeze me through, As with a two-edged sword! O destiny! destiny! woes most hard to see, More hard to bear! Alas! poor maid for thee! PROMETHEUS. Thy wails anticipate her woes; restrain Thy trembling tears till thou hast heard the whole. CHORUS. Proceed: to know the worst some solace brings To the vexed heart.