NOTE: 
589 And 1820; Tho’ B.

FURY: 
Behold an emblem:  those who do endure
Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but heap 595
Thousand-fold torment on themselves and him.

PROMETHEUS: 
Remit the anguish of that lighted stare;
Close those wan lips; let that thorn-wounded brow
Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears! 
Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death, 600
So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix,
So those pale fingers play not with thy gore. 
O, horrible!  Thy name I will not speak,
It hath become a curse.  I see, I see
The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just, 605
Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee,
Some hunted by foul lies from their heart’s home,
An early-chosen, late-lamented home;
As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind;
Some linked to corpses in unwholesome cells:  610
Some—­Hear I not the multitude laugh loud?—­
Impaled in lingering fire:  and mighty realms
Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles,
Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood
By the red light of their own burning homes. 615

FURY: 
Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst hear groans;
Worse things unheard, unseen, remain behind.

PROMETHEUS: 
Worse?

FURY: 
In each human heart terror survives
The ravin it has gorged:  the loftiest fear
All that they would disdain to think were true:  620
Hypocrisy and custom make their minds
The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. 
They dare not devise good for man’s estate,
And yet they know not that they do not dare. 
The good want power, but to weep barren tears. 625
The powerful goodness want:  worse need for them. 
The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom;
And all best things are thus confused to ill. 
Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
But live among their suffering fellow-men 630
As if none felt:  they know not what they do.

NOTE: 
619 ravin B, edition 1839; ruin 1820.

PROMETHEUS: 
Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes;
And yet I pity those they torture not.

FURY: 
Thou pitiest them?  I speak no more!
[VANISHES.]

PROMETHEUS: 
Ah woe! 
Ah woe!  Alas! pain, pain ever, for ever! 635
I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear
Thy works within my woe-illumed mind,
Thou subtle tyrant!  Peace is in the grave. 
The grave hides all things beautiful and good: 
I am a God and cannot find it there, 640
Nor would I seek it:  for, though dread revenge,
This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. 
The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul
With new endurance, till the hour arrives
When they shall be no types of things which are. 645