Prometheus. No grudging! but a fear to break thine heart.
Io. Less care for me, I pray thee! Certainty,
I count for sweetness.
Prometheus. Thou wilt have it so,
And, therefore, I must speak. Now hear—
Chorus. Not yet!
Give half the sweetness my way. Let us learn
First, what the curse is that befell this maid,—
Her own voice telling her own wasting woes!—
For what remains of anguish; let it wait
The teaching of thy lips.
Prometheus. It doth behoove
That thou, maid Io, should vouchsafe to these
The grace they pray; and more, because they are called
Thy father's sisters; since to open out
And mourn out grief, where it is possible
To draw a tear from the audience, is a work
That pays its own price well.
Io. I cannot choose
But trust you, nymphs, and tell you all ye ask,
In clear words—though I sob amid my speech
In speaking of the storm-curse sent from Zeus,
And of my beauty, from which height it took
Its swoop on me, poor wretch! left thus deformed,
And monstrous to your eyes. For evermore
Around my virgin-chamber, wandering went
The nightly visions, and entreated me
With syllabled smooth sweetness.—"Blessed maid,
Why lengthen out thy maiden hours, when fate
Permits the noblest spousal in the world?
For Zeus burns with the arrow of thy love,
