PROMETHEUS BOUND
He look'd not for, cut off; and me, sting-fretted,
Drives yet from land to land the scourge of God.
Thou hast the tale of things thus far: the travail
Remaining, if thou canst, declare; nor shed,
Being pitiful, about my heart the warmth
Of insubstantial comfort: no affliction
I count so foul as fabricated words.
CHORUS
Out upon 't! forbear!
Tale of wonder and fear,
Full of strangest woe,
I had never thought,
Never said, would so
To mine ears be brought,
Or my living heart
So be stricken chill,
Stricken as with a dart
Sharp to thrust and thrill:—
Grievous things to see! 690
Grievous things to dree!
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