PROMETHEUS BOUND
Have I kept silence: nay, my thoughts devour me,
To see myself thus made a mockery of.
O these new gods! Who was it, who but I,
That dealt to each his own appurtenance? 440
But peace to that: I speak not unto those
From whom these things are hidden. Now consider
The sore estate of men, how witless once
And weak they were, until I lodged in them
Reason, and gave them hearts to understand.
I speak not to discover man's defect,
But how my gifts consorted with their need.
For first they saw and gat no good of seeing,
They heard and heard not: all their life they seem'd
To move as in a dream, shape mix'd with shape
Confusedly, at hazard; and they knew not 450
Houses that took the sun, brick-woven or wood,
But burrowing huddled, like to wind-borne ants,
Far down in holes beyond all reach of day.
And no sure sign of winter had they found,
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