IO. What hand shall wrest Jove's sceptre? PROMETHEUS. Jove's own empty wit. IO. How so? PROMETHEUS. From evil marriage reaping evil fruit. IO. Marriage! of mortal lineage or divine? PROMETHEUS. Ask me no further. This I may not answer. IO. Shall his spouse thrust him from his ancient throne? PROMETHEUS. The son that she brings forth shall wound his father. IO. And hath he no redemption from this doom? PROMETHEUS. None, till he loose me from these hated bonds. IO. But who, in Jove's despite, shall loose thee? PROMETHEUS. One {203} From thine own womb descended. IO. How? My Son? One born of me shall be thy Saviour!--When? PROMETHEUS. When generations ten have passed, the third.[n44] IO. Thou speak'st ambiguous oracles. PROMETHEUS. I have spoken Enough for thee. Pry not into the Fates. IO. Wilt thou hold forth a hope to cheat my grasp? PROMETHEUS. I give thee choice of two things: choose thou one. IO. What things? Speak, and I'll choose. PROMETHEUS. Thou hast the choice To hear thy toils to the end, or learn his name Who comes to save me. CHORUS. Nay, divide the choice; One half to her concede, to me the other, Thus doubly gracious: to the maid her toils, To me thy destined Saviour tell.