CHOR. Let us dance in honor of Bacchus; let us raise a shout for what has befallen Pentheus, the descendant of the dragon, who assumed female attire and the wand with the beautiful thyrsus,—a certain death, having a bull[[61]] as his leader to calamity. Ye Cadmean Bacchants, ye have accomplished a glorious victory, illustrious, yet for woe and tears. It is a glorious contest to plunge one's dripping hand in the blood of one's son. But—for I see Agave, the mother of Pentheus, coining to the house with starting eyes; receive the revel of the Evian God.
AGAVE. O Asiatic Bacchæ!
CHOR. To what dost thou excite me? O!
AG. We bring from the mountains a fresh-culled wreathing[[62]] to the house, a blessed prey.
CHOR. I see it, and hail you as a fellow-reveler, O!
AG. I have caught him without a noose, a young lion, as you may see.
CHOR. From what desert?
AG. Cithæron.
CHOR. What did Cithæron?
AG. Slew him.