Cho. Come, let us exalt our Bacchic god in choral strain, let us loudly chant the fall of Pentheus from the serpent sprung, who assumed a woman’s dress and took the fair Bacchic wand, sure pledge of death,[1] with a bull to guide him to his doom. O ye Bacchanals of Thebes! glorious is the triumph ye[2] have achieved, ending in sorrow and tears. ’Tis a noble enterprise to dabble the hand in the blood of a son till it drips. But hist! I see Agave, the mother of Pentheus, with wild rolling eye hasting to the house; welcome the revellers of the Bacchic god.
Aga. Ye Bacchanals from Asia!
Cho. Why dost thou rouse[3] me? why?
Aga. From the hills I am bringing to my home a tendril freshly-culled, glad guerdon of the chase.
Cho. I see it, and I will welcome thee unto our revels. All hail!
Aga. I caught him with never a snare, this lion’s whelp,[4] as ye may see.
Cho. From what desert lair?
Aga. Cithæron——
Cho. Yes, Cithæaeron?
Aga. Was his death.
Cho. Who was it gave the first blow?
Aga. Mine that privilege; “Happy Agave!” they call me ’mid our revellers.
Cho. Who did the rest?
Aga. Cadmus——
Cho. What of him?
Aga. His daughters struck the monster after me; yes, after me.
