But thou, who art the God and Lord: O thou
  Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe,
  To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow
  In fear and worship--all-prevailing foe!
  I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse
  Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse;
  Till thine Infinity shall be
  A robe of envenomed agony;
  And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain,
  To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain!

  Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,
  Ill deeds; then be thou damned, beholding good;
  Both infinite as is the universe,
  And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude.
  An awful image of calm power
  Though now thou sittest, let the hour
  Come, when thou must appear to be
  That which thou art internally;
  And after many a false and fruitless crime,
  Scorn track thy lagging fall through boundless space and time!

PROMETHEUS
  Were these my words, O Parent?