A twofold Thebes, our seven-gated burg!
A bull thou seem'st that leadeth on before; 920
And horns upon thine head have sprouted forth.
How, wast thou brute?—bull art thou verily now!
Dionysus.
The God attends us, gracious not ere this,
Leagued with us now: now seest thou as thou shouldst.
Pentheus.
Whose semblance bear I? Have I not the mien 925
Of Ino, or my mother Agavê's port?
Dionysus.
Their very selves I seem to see in thee.
Yet, what?—this tress hath from his place escaped,
Not as I braided it beneath the coif.
Pentheus.
Tossing it forth and back within, in whirls 930
Of Bacchic frenzy, I disordered it.
Dionysus.
Nay, I, who have taken thy tire-maiden's part,
Will rearrange it. Come, hold up thine head.
Pentheus.
Lo there—thou lay it smooth: to thee I look.
Dionysus.
Now is thy girdle loose; thy garment's folds 935
Droop not below thine ankles evenly.
