spinning under the lash, which boys are flogging round
and round in a great ring in an empty courtyard, with
every thought on their game: driven by the whip it 15
keeps making circle after circle: the beardless faces
hang over it in puzzled wonder, marvelling how the box-wood
can fly, as though the blows made it a living thing.
With motion as furious she courses through crowded
streets and unruly peoples. Nay, more than this, she 20
feigns the inspiration of Bacchus, nerving herself to more
atrocious deeds, and climbing new heights of madness—flies