_A Bacchanal_
Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed
Wild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed!

_Others_
Ye who did Bromios scorn,
Praise Him the more,
Bacchanals, Cadmus-born;
Praise with sore
Agony, yea, with tears!
Great are the gifts he bears!
Hands that a mother rears
Red with gore!

LEADER
But stay, Agave cometh! And her eyes
Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize
Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse!
[_Enter from the Mountain_ AGAVE, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously
happy, bearing the head of_ PENTHEUS _in her hand. The_ CHORUS MAIDENS
_stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ LEADER, _also horror-struck,
strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the God's deed_.]

AGAVE
Ye from the lands of Morn!

LEADER
Call me not; I give praise!

AGAVE