Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/41

 Would that under earth, beneath Haïdes, the host of death, Into baseless Tartarus, He had hurl'd me shackled thus Cruelly, infrangibly! Then, neither god nor man could be Rejoicer o'er Prometheus' woes: Now, motion'd by each wind that blows, I gladden—wretched me!—my foes.

Who of the gods so stern as to be gladden'd? Who by thy fate unsadden'd? Who of the gods, save Jove? He, ever lending To wrath his soul unbending, Ruleth the heav'ns, nor e'er shall cease from ill, Until his heart be satiate, or until By fraud the sceptre's strength be wrested from his will.