TO give that life, which had not breath before;
PROMETHEUS, from above, stole heavenly fire:
For which his boldness he was plaguèd sore,
A just reward for such a high aspire.
So whilst I steal from thee, my heaven above,
The heat which doth revive my dying sprite:
For rashness, mine eternal grief I prove.
Yet, though our fault's all one--the plague's not like:
He feels of vulture one, alone, the smart;
But I have thousands, which still gnaw my heart.