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⁠"Prom. To me who knew it all
He hath this message borne;
And that a foe from foes
Should suffer is not strange.
Therefore on me be hurled
The sharp-edged wreath of fire;
And let heaven's vault be stirred
With thunder and the blasts
Of fiercest winds; and earth
From its foundations strong,
E'en to its deepest roots,
Let storm-winds make to rock;
And let them heap the waves
Of ocean's rugged surge
Up to the regions high,
Where move the stars of heaven;
And to dark Tartaros
Let him my carcass hurl,
With mighty blasts of force;
Yet me he shall not slay.

⁠Merc. Such words and thoughts from one
Brain-stricken we may hear.
What space divides his state
From frenzy? what repose
Hath he from maddened rage?
But ye who pitying stand
And share his bitter griefs,
Quickly from hence depart,
Lest the relentless roar
Of thunder stun your soul.

⁠Chorus. With other words attempt
To counsel and persuade,
And I will hear; for now
Thou hast this word thrust in

That we may never hear.