If he, from Heau’n that filch’d that liuing Fire,
Condemn’d by Iove to endlesse Torment bee,
I greatly maruell, how you still goe free,
That farre beyond Promethevs did aspire:
The Fire he stole, although of Heau’nly kind,
Which from aboue he craftily did take,
Of liuelesse Clods, vs liuing Men to make,
He did bestow in temper of the Mind.
But you broke into Heau’ns immortall store,
Where Vertue, Honour, Wit, and Beautie lay;
Which taking thence, you haue escap’d away,
Yet stand as free as ere you did before:
Yet old Promethevs punish’d for his Rape.
Thus poore Theeues suffer, when the greater scape.