Shall it be bars of iron? Or this bare hand
And shoulder to the crags, to wrench them down?
Dionysus.
Wouldst wreck the Nymphs' wild temples, and the brown
Rocks, where Pan pipes at noonday?
Pentheus.
Nay; not I!
Force is not well with women. I will lie
Hid in the pine-brake.
Dionysus.
Even as fits a spy
On holy and fearful things, so shalt thou lie!
Pentheus (with a laugh).
They lie there now, methinks—the wild birds, caught
By love among the leaves, and fluttering not!