Of music, when the inspired voice and lute
  Languish, ere yet the responses are mute,
  Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul,
  Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll.

PROMETHEUS
  How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel
  Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far,
  Asia! who, when my being overflowed,
  Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine
  Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust.
  All things are still. Alas! how heavily
  This quiet morning weighs upon my heart;
  Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief,
  If slumber were denied not. I would fain
  Be what it is my destiny to be,
  The saviour and the strength of suffering man,
  Or sink into the original gulf of things.
  There is no agony, and no solace left;
  Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more.

PANTHEA
  Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee
  The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when
  The shadow of thy spirit falls on her?

PROMETHEUS
  I said all hope was vain but love; thou lovest.

PANTHEA
  Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white,