Lend me your formidable Thyrse, ye Bacchanals.
Double your strokes. Bold——bolder yet,
’Tis done———— How many rivals conquer’d lie?
How many hardy combatants submit?
O son of Jupiter, thy deity,
And sovereign power, we own, and aid divine;
Nothing but heaps of jolly topers slain
I see extended on the plain,
Floating in ruddy streams of reeking wine.