Æschylos Tragedies and Fragments. Aeschylus

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      Chor. Foul shame thou sufferest: of thy sense bereaved,

      Thou errest greatly: and, like leech unskilled,

      Thou losest heart when smitten with disease,

      And know'st not how to find the remedies

      Wherewith to heal thine own soul's sicknesses.

      Prom. Hearing what yet remains thou'lt wonder more,

      What arts and what resources I devised:

      And this the chief: if any one fell ill,

      There was no help for him, nor healing food,

      Nor unguent, nor yet potion; but for want

      Of drugs they wasted, till I showed to them

      The blendings of all mild medicaments,169

      Wherewith they ward the attacks of sickness sore.

      I gave them many modes of prophecy;170

      And I first taught them what dreams needs must prove

      True visions, and made known the ominous sounds

      Full hard to know; and tokens by the way,

      And flights of taloned birds I clearly marked, —

      Those on the right propitious to mankind,

      And those sinister, – and what form of life

      They each maintain, and what their enmities

      Each with the other, and their loves and friendships;

      And of the inward parts the plumpness smooth.

      And with what colour they the Gods would please,

      And the streaked comeliness of gall and liver:

      And with burnt limbs enwrapt in fat, and chine,

      I led men on to art full difficult:

      And I gave eyes to omens drawn from fire,

      Till then dim-visioned. So far then for this.

      And 'neath the earth the hidden boons for men,

      Bronze, iron, silver, gold, who else could say

      That he, ere I did, found them? None, I know,

      Unless he fain would babble idle words.

      In one short word, then, learn the truth condensed, —

      Allarts of mortals from Prometheus spring.

      Chor. Nay, be not thou to men so over-kind,

      While thou thyself art in sore evil case;

      For I am sanguine that thou too, released

      From bonds, shall be as strong as Zeus himself.

      Prom. It is not thus that Fate's decree is fixed;

      But I, long crushed with twice ten thousand woes

      And bitter pains, shall then escape my bonds;

      Art is far weaker than Necessity.

      Chor. Who guides the helm, then, of Necessity?

      Prom. Fates triple-formed, Errinyes unforgetting.

      Chor. Is Zeus, then, weaker in his might than these?

      Prom. Not even He can 'scape the thing decreed.

      Chor. What is decreed for Zeus but still to reign?

      Prom. Thou may'st no further learn, ask thou no more.

      Chor. 'Tis doubtless some dread secret which thou hidest.

      Prom. Of other theme make mention, for the time

      Is not yet come to utter this, but still

      It must be hidden to the uttermost;

      For by thus keeping it it is that I

      Escape my bondage foul, and these my pains.