Page:Prometheus Bound (Bevan 1902).djvu/98

 He look'd not for, cut off; and me, sting-fretted,

Drives yet from land to land the scourge of God.

Thou hast the tale of things thus far: the travail

Remaining, if thou canst, declare; nor shed,

Being pitiful, about my heart the warmth

Of insubstantial comfort: no affliction

I count so foul as fabricated words.

Out upon 't! forbear!

Tale of wonder and fear,

Full of strangest woe,

I had never thought,

Never said, would so

To mine ears be brought,

Or my living heart

So be stricken chill,

Stricken as with a dart

Sharp to thrust and thrill:—

Grievous things to see!

Grievous things to dree!