THE ERGA 57 is the story how the gods had "hidden away his Hfe from man," till good Prometheus stole fire and gave it him. Then Zeus, to be even with him, made a shape like a gentle maiden, and every god gave it a separate charm, and Hermes last put in it the heart of a dog and the ways of a thief. And the gods called it Pandora, and gave it to Epimetheus, who accepted it on behalf of mankind. There is the story of the four ages : at least there ought to be four — gold, silver, bronze, and iron ; but, under the influence of Homer, the heroes who fought at Troy have to come in somewhere. They are put just after the bronze and before ourselves. We are iron ; and, bad as we are, are likely to get worse. The gods have all left us, except Aidos and Nemesis — those two lovely ideas which the sophist Protagoras made the basis of social ethics, and which we miserably translate into Shame and Righteous Indignation. Some day, Hesiod thinks, we shall drive even them away, and all will be lost. Two passages, indeed, do suggest the possibility of a brighter future : all may be well when the Demos at last arises and punishes the sins of the princes (175, 260 ff.). It is interesting to compare the loyalty of the prosperous Ionian epos towards its primi- tive kings with the bitter insurgency of the Boeotian peasant-song against its oligarchy of nobles. The Erga is delightful in its descriptions of the seasons — a subject that touched Greek feelings down to the days of Longus. Take the month of Lenaion, ^^ bad days, enough to flay an ox, when the north wind rides down from Thrace, and earth and the plants shut them- selves up ; and he falls on the forest and brings down great oaks and pines; and all the wood groans, and the wild beasts shiver and put their tails between their legs. Their hides
