TIMON 
Ho, Zeus, you Protector of Friends and Guests and
Comrades, Keeper of the Hearth, Lord of the
Lightning, Guardian of Oaths, Cloud-Compeller,
Loud-thunderer and whatever else crazy poets call
you, above all when they are in trouble with their
verses, for then to help them out you assume a
multitude of names and so shore up the weak spots in
their metre and fill up the gaps in their rhythm!
Where now is your pealing levin, your rolling thunder
and your blazing, flashing, horrid bolt? Cf. Eur. Phoen. 182. All that
has turned out to be stuff and nonsense, pure poetic
vapour except for the resonance of the names.
That famous, far-flying, ready weapon of yours has
been completely quenched in some way or other
and is cold, not even retaining a tiny spark of
resentment against wrong doers.