CHORUS. Do good to men, but do it with discretion. Why shouldst thou harm thyself? Good hope I nurse To see thee soon from these harsh chains unbound, As free, as mighty, as great Jove himself.
PROMETHEUS. This may not be; the destined course of things Fate must accomplish; I must bend me yet 'Neath wrongs on wrongs, ere I may 'scape these bonds. Though Art be strong, Necessity is stronger.
CHORUS. And who is lord of strong Necessity?[n34]
PROMETHEUS. The triform Fates, and the sure-memoried Furies.
CHORUS. And mighty Jove himself must yield to them?
PROMETHEUS. No more than others Jove can 'scape his doom.[n35]
CHORUS. What doom?--No doom hath he but endless sway.
PROMETHEUS. 'Tis not for thee to know: tempt not the question.
CHORUS. There's some dread mystery in thy chary speech, Close-veiled.
PROMETHEUS. Urge this no more: the truth thou'lt know In fitting season; now it lies concealed In deepest darkness! for relenting Jove Himself must woo this secret from my breast.
CHORAL HYMN. STROPHE I. Never, O never may Jove, Who in Olympus reigns omnipotent lord, { 197} Plant his high will against my weak opinion![n36] Let me approach the gods With blood of oxen and with holy feasts, By father Ocean's quenchless stream, and pay No backward vows: Nor let my tongue offend; but in my heart Be lowly wisdom graven.
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.