Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/177

Rh

Harder—I say—strike harder—screw all tight

And be not in the least particular

Remiss, for unto one of his resource

Bars are but instruments of liberty.

This forearm's fast:—a shackle hard to shift.

Now buckle this!—and handsomely! Let him learn

Sharp though he be, he's a dull blade to Zeus.

None can find fault with this:—save him it tortures.

Now take thine iron spike and drive it in,

Until it gnaw clean through the rebel's breast.

Woe's me, Prometheus, for thy weight of woe!

Still shirking? still a-groaning for the foes

Of Zeus? Anon thou'lt wail thine own mishap.

Thou seest what eyes scarce bear to look upon!

I see this fellow getting his deserts! [sic]

But strap him with a belt about his ribs.

I do what I must do: for thee—less words!