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To one who well knew all his message should bring

Hath he bayed it out, and that from his foes

A foe should bear ills is nothing unwont.

Now let the forked whorls of fire be driven

Against me, and let the air be convulsed

With thunder and rage of boisterous winds,

Let the blast sway the earth to her lowest base,

To the very roots, let it heap the sea wave

In lashing surge on the path of heaven's stars,

Let it, whirling me high in resistless wrath,

Dash my body down to deep Tartarus—

He slays me not do what he will.

Such counsels are these and such these words

As you shall hear from the stricken in mind.

For how is he short of what madmen are

Who, even thus crushed, cannot cease to rave?

But do ye who bear part in his griefs make haste

To go from this place, lest your minds be dazed

By the thunder's pitiless roar.