Page:Prometheus Bound (Bevan 1902).djvu/81



A strange thing is befallen thee! where are they,

Thy wits? thou'rt lost, and like a sorry leech

Fall'n sick, thou staggerest, impotent to hit

The medicine that shall meet thine own disease.

Hearken the rest, and thou wilt wonder more,

Such arts and ways my wisdom reach'd unto.

And this in chief: did any man fall sick,

Was no deliverance, either in things eaten,

Plaster or potion, but their sap and substance

Dwindled for lack of medicine, till I taught them

The sage commixtures of beneficent balms,

For all disorders sovereign. I defined

Ways many of divination: also dreams

I first did spell, discerning which foreshadow'd

Matter of truth. I made men understand

Inapprehensible voices: ominous

Conjunctions by the way, the curious flight