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Chorus
Shall I move my white foot in the night-long dance, aroused to a frenzy, [865] throwing my head to the dewy air, like a fawn sporting in the green pleasures of the meadow, when it has escaped a fearful chase beyond the watchers [870] over the well-woven nets, and the hunter hastens his dogs on their course with his call, while she, with great exertion and a storm-swift running, rushes along the plain by the river, rejoicing [875] in the solitude apart from men and in the thickets of the shady-foliaged woods. What is wisdom? Or what greater honor do the gods give to mortals than to hold one's hand [880] in strength over the head of enemies? What is good is always dear.
Euripides. The Tragedies of Euripides, translated by T. A. Buckley. Bacchae. London. Henry G. Bohn. 1850.
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