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Thy fortunes, O Prometheus, lesson me.

Good then, depart: God speed thee, hold thou fast

Thy present mind.

Or ever that thy word

Was utter'd, I had set my face to go:

For this my four-foot bird begins to winnow

The air, his buxom path: full fain, I wot,

In his own steading will he double knee.

[ departs.

I wail, Prometheus, Woe for thy plague appalling;

And mine eyes are fountains of tears, that incessant falling

Make wet my cheek with their springs.