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        Man and beast, and foul and fair,
        Like a tempest through the air;
        Thou shalt quell this horseman grim,
        Woundless though in heart or limb.

PROMETHEUS
        Spirits! how know ye this shall be?

CHORUS
          In the atmosphere we breathe,
        As buds grow red, when the snow-storms flee,
          From spring gathering up beneath,
        Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake,
        And the wandering herdsmen know
        That the white-thorn soon will blow:
        Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace,
        When they struggle to increase,
        Are to us as soft winds be
        To shepherd boys, the prophecy
        Which begins and ends in thee.

IONE
      Where are the Spirits fled?

PANTHEA
                                   Only a sense
      Remains of them, like the omnipotence