Begrudge not, O lord! to my prayers to give heed. 600
Enough hath out-worn me my much-roaming toil.
Nor wist I from torment how may I be freed.
The voice dost thou hear of the cow-horned maid?
Prometheus.
And how not hear the maid of Inachos,
Brize-driven, who the heart of Zeus with love
Doth warm, and now in courses all too long,
Through Hera's hate, is rudely exercised?
Io. Antistrophe.
Whence know'st thou to speak my sire's name? 610
Oh answer a wretched one's prayer;—
Ah me! the dire anguish! Woe! Woe!
Who art thou, poor wretch, who dost truly proclaim
My plague, with its phrenzying torture, that came
From Zeus and doth sting to despair?
Woe! ah woe!
With boundings, by food-craving anguish pursued,
On rushing with passionate throe,
By wrathful devices of Hera subdued,
I come. Of the wretched are any who know 620
Such pangs as I suffer? But now by clear sign,
Reveal what for me yet remaineth to bear;
What cure for my plague. If such knowledge be thine,
Forthwith to the sad-roaming maiden declare.
Prometheus.
Plainly I'll tell thee all thou wouldest learn,
Not weaving riddles, but in simple phrase,
