Act III - Io, Prometheus and the Chorus. 

IO: What country? What race? who is he,
⁠This man, whom, rock-bound, I survey,
⁠Storm-battered? What trespass hath thee
⁠Thus doomed to destruction? Oh, say,
To what region of earth have I wandered, forlorn?
⁠Ah me! The dire anguish! Ah me!
⁠Again the barbed pest doth assail!
⁠Thou phantom of Argos, earth-born;
⁠Avert him, O earth! Ah, I quail, ⁠
The herdsman beholding with myriad eyes.
With crafty look, onward, still onward he hies;
Not even in death is he hid 'neath the earth;
⁠But, e'en from the shades coming back,
He hounds me, forlorn one, in anguish of dearth,
To roam by the sea-waves' salt track.
Still droneth the wax-moulded reed,
⁠Shrill-piping, a sleep-breathing strain. ⁠
⁠Ah me! The dire anguish! Woe! Woe!
Ah, whither on earth do these far-roamings lead?
What trespass canst find, son of Kronos, in me,
⁠That thou yokest me ever to pain?
⁠Woe! Ah, woe!
And wherefore with brize-driven fear torture so
⁠A wretchèd one, phrenzied in brain?
Oh burn me with fire, or o'erwhelm 'neath the soil,
Or fling me to ravenous beasts of the sea.
Begrudge not, O lord! to my prayers to give heed. ⁠
Enough hath out-worn me my much-roaming toil.
Nor wist I from torment how may I be freed.
The voice dost thou hear of the cow-horned maid?
[...] ⁠Whence know'st thou to speak my sire's name? ⁠
⁠Oh answer a wretched one's prayer;—
⁠Ah me! the dire anguish! Woe! Woe!
Who art thou, poor wretch, who dost truly proclaim
My plague, with its phrenzying torture, that came
⁠From Zeus and doth sting to despair?
⁠Woe! ah woe!
With boundings, by food-craving anguish pursued,
⁠On rushing with passionate throe,
By wrathful devices of Hera subdued,
I come. Of the wretched are any who know ⁠
Such pangs as I suffer? But now by clear sign,
Reveal what for me yet remaineth to bear;
What cure for my plague. If such knowledge be thine,
Forthwith to the sad-roaming maiden declare.