Ye are mad!—Unhand him. Howso swift he be,
My toils are round him and he shall not fly.
[The guards loose the arms of Dionysus; Pentheus studies him for a while in silence, then speaks jeeringly. Dionysus remains gentle and unafraid.
Marry, a fair shape for a woman's eye,
Sir stranger! And thou seek'st no more, I ween!
Long curls, withal! That shows thou ne'er hast been
A wrestler!—down both cheeks so softly tossed
And winsome! And a white skin! It hath cost
Thee pains, to please thy damsels with this white
And red of cheeks that never face the light!
[Dionysus is silent.
Speak, sirrah; tell me first thy name and race.
Dionysus.
No glory is therein, nor yet disgrace.
Thou hast heard of Tmolus, the bright hill of flowers?
Pentheus.
Surely; the ridge that winds by Sardis' towers
Dionysus.