The Nymphs and Satyrs poetry;
Myself (a thing scarce to be thought)
Was at that time a stander by.
And ever since the whim runs in my head,
With heavenly frenzy I'm on fire;
Dear Bacchus, let me not be punishèd
For raving, when thou didst inspire.
Ecstatically drunk, I now dare sing
10Thy bigot Thyades, and the source
Whence thy brisk wine, honey, and milk did spring,