Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/182

170

Who of the Gods is there so pitiless

That he can triumph in thy sore distress?

Who doth not inly groan

With every pang of thine save Zeus alone?

But he is ever wroth,—not to be bent

From his resolved intent

The sons of heaven to subjugate;

Nor shall he cease until his heart be satiate,

Or one a way devise

To hurl him from the throne where he doth monarchize.

Yea, of a surety,—though he do me wrong,

Loading my limbs with fetters strong—

The president

Of heaven's high parliament

Shall need me yet to show

What new conspiracy with privy blow

Attempts his sceptre and his kingly seat.

Neither shall words with all persuasion sweet,

Not though his tongue drop honey, cheat

Nor charm my knowledge from me; nor duress

Of menace dire, fear of more grievous pains,

Unseal my lips, till he have loosed these chains,

And granted for these injuries redress.

High is the heart of thee,

Thy will no whit by bitter woes unstrung,

And all too free

The licence of thy bold, unshackled tongue.

But fear hath roused my soul with piercing cry!