Page:The Tragedies of Aeschylus - tr. Potter - 1812.pdf/87

Rh Ah me!

That sound of grief Jove' doth not know,

Time, as its age advanceth, teaches all things.

All its advances have not taught thee wisdom.

I shou'd not else waste words on thee, a vassal.

Nought wilt thou answer then to what Jove asks.

If due, I wou'd repay his courtesy,

Why am I cheek'd, why rated as a boy ?

A boy thou art, more simple than a boy,

If thou hast hopes to be inform'd by me.

Not all his tortures, all his arts shall move me

T' unlock my lips, till this curs'd chain be loos'd.

No, let him hurl his flaming lightnings, wing

His whitening snows, and with his thunders shake

The rocking earth, they move not me to say

What fore shall wrest the sceptre from his hand.

Weigh these things well, will these unloose thy chains ?

Well have they long been weigh'd, and well consider'd.

Subdue, vain fool, subdue thy insolence,

And let thy miseries teach the juster thoughts.

Thy counsels, like the waves that dash against

The rock's firm base, disquiet but not move me.

Conceive not of me that, thro' fear what Jove

May in his rage inflict, my fix'd disdain