Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
  But live among their suffering fellow-men
  As if none felt; they know not what they do.

PROMETHEUS
  Thy words are like a cloud of wingèd snakes;
  And yet I pity those they torture not.

FURY
  Thou pitiest them? I speak no more!
  [Vanishes.

PROMETHEUS
  Ah woe!
  Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, forever!
  I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear
  Thy works within my woe-illumèd mind,
  Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave.
  The grave hides all things beautiful and good.
  I am a God and cannot find it there,
  Nor would I seek it; for, though dread revenge,
  This is defeat, fierce king, not victory.
  The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul
  With new endurance, till the hour arrives
  When they shall be no types of things which are.

PANTHEA
  Alas! what sawest thou?

PROMETHEUS
  There are two woes--
  To speak and to behold; thou spare me one.
  Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they
  Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry;