To Bacchus holds the rites divine.
Haste then, ye Bacchæ, haste,
Attend your god, the son of heaven’s high king.
From Phrygia’s mountains wild and waste
To beauteous-structur’d Greece your Bacchus bring
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O ye Curetes, friendly band,
You, the blest natives of Crete’s sacred land,
Who tread those groves, which, dark’ning round,
O’er infant Jove their shelt’ring branches spread,