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      Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
      But live among their suffering fellow-men
      As if none felt; they know not what they do.

PROMETHEUS
      Thy words are like a cloud of wingèd 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, forever!
      I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear
      Thy works within my woe-illumèd 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,
      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.

PANTHEA
      Alas! what sawest thou?

PROMETHEUS
                               There are two woes--
      To speak and to behold; thou spare me one.
      Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they
      Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry;