(But more and more the tumult did increase:
Awhile he swore—they sent into the space
Their boisterous shouts in honour of their king,
And unto Bacchus tuned their welcoming.)
Yes—he, poor god, grew more and more depress’d;
His temples swoll’n, and every joint oppress’d
With pain intense, he cried—“None so distress’d
As I, * * * none half so wretched, * * * none so lorn, * * *
Not one so miserable was ever born!”
Great Pluto, seeing the god most sorely wroth,