View text source at Wikipedia
|
Lofty-minded son of Themis who counsels straight, against my will, no less than yours, I must rivet you with brazen bonds no hand can loose to this desolate crag, where neither voice nor form of mortal man shall you perceive; but, scorched by the sun's bright beams, you shall lose the fair bloom of your flesh. And glad you shall be when spangled-robed night shall veil his brightness and when the sun shall scatter again the frost of morning. Evermore the burden of your present ill shall wear you out; for your deliverer is not yet born.
Such is the prize you have gained for your championship of man.
— Hephaestus to Prometheus, in Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound, transl. Herbert Weir Smyth.