LINES 444-533.

PROMETHEUS.

Think not it is from pride or wantonness
That I forbear to speak; my heart is wrung
With looking on these ignominious bonds.
Who was it that to these new deities
Their attributes apportioned? Who but I?
Of that no more; to you as well as me
The tale is known; but list while I recount
How vile was man's estate, how void was man
Of reason, till I gave him mind and sense.
Not that I would upbraid the race of men:
I would but show my own benevolence.
Eyesight they had, yet nothing saw aright;
Ears, and yet heard not; but like forms in dreams,
For ages lived a life confused, nor bricks
Nor woodwork had to build them sunny homes,
But dwelt beneath the ground, as do the tribes
Diminutive of ants, in sunless caves.
Nor had they signs to mark the season's change,
Coming of winter or of flowery spring
Or of boon summer; but at random wrought
In all things, till I taught them to discern
The risings and the settings of the stars;
The use of numbers, crown of sciences,
Was my invention; mine were letters too,
The implement of mind in all its works.
First I trained beasts to draw beneath the yoke,