Till death unite them and they part no more;
  Dreams and the light imaginings of men,
  And all that faith creates or love desires,
  Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes.
  There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade,
  'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the gods
  Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds,
  Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and beasts;
  And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom;
  And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne
  Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter
  The curse which all remember. Call at will
  Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter,
  Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods
  From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin,
  Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons.
  Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge
  Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades,
  As rainy wind through the abandoned gate
  Of a fallen palace.

PROMETHEUS
  Mother, let not aught
  Of that which may be evil pass again
  My lips, or those of aught resembling me.
  Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear!