Woe's me, Prometheus, for thy weight of woe!

Still shirking? still a-groaning for the foes

Of Zeus? Anon thou'lt wail thine own mishap.

Thou seest what eyes scarce bear to look upon!

I see this fellow getting his deserts!

But strap him with a gelt about his ribs.

I do what I must do: for thee-less words!

"Words," quotha? Aye, and shout 'em if need be.