PROMETHEUS BOUND
Neither of spring, the flowery time, nor summer,
The time of gathering. Foot and hand they plied
Without discernment, till the day I show'd them
The rising of the stars, and how to spell
The vanishing thereof, hard lore. Moreover
Number, the chiefest artifice of all
And subtlest, I devised for them, and joinings 460
Of letters, whereby the remembrance lives
Of all things, and the craft of lovely words.
And my hand first yoked with a yoke great beasts,
That, thong-bound or bestridden, they might do
Vile service, and the seed of men to these
Transfer their travail's worst. To wheelèd frames
I fasten'd horses, patient of the rein,
The glory of affluence that flowers in pride.
And none save I it was contrived those hulls
With wings of linen, wherein sea-farers
Go to and fro in the great field of the waves.
All these devices I devised for men,
But for myself am beggar'd of conceit, 470
To escape the pain that now is come upon me.
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