THE WINE
Slaves, bring more wine—bright scarlet wine of Syracuse and Cyprian wine which gleams like yellow gold . . . This gross food sickens me. Take it away! Bring wine, and the large goblets.
Who are these women? They have come to dance? I wonder . . . But no—send them away. When women dance, I dream of terrible things . . . Ah! at last, laggard! Pour quickly!
Now I forget, O crimson flood! I have bought thee like a courtesan, but thine impassioned touch . . . upon my lips . . . is cold. I will be faithful to thee until death. For I am very faithful—true, O Dionysos! . . . Come, friend, drink also: and when thou art weary, sleep; and pray for . . . what thou wishest . . . in thy dreams.
61
