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Nay, art thou not? or something yet more green,

If thou hast hope to gather aught from me?

There is no torment, no device, whereby

Zeus shall enforce my lips to let this go,

Until these chains injurious be undone.

I have said: and now let fly the sooty flame!

Let all the world become one waste of snow,

Whirl of white feathers, and one roar of thunders

Infernal! Nothing of all that shall bend me,

Nothing shall force from me, what hand of fate

Shall dispossess him from his sovereignty.

Look if these things are like to bring thee succour.

Nay, long ago I look'd, and well advised me.