PROMETHEUS BOUND
Io
Whence, whence hast thou my father's name? Yea, who,
O who art thou, that art sore-afflicted too,
And to me afflicted givest greeting true,
Naming aright
The sharp god-sent
Torment unsleeping,
That goads me, spent,
To the uttermost land
In wilder'd flight?
Yea, I come made mad with famine and with leaping. 600
As a tempest, unavailing to withstand
Wiles of a goddess wroth,
Even Hera.—There! again!
The sting! O who of all
That men ill-fated call
Do tread such troublous path
As I? But tell me plain,
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