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.