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 He is sweet in the mountains 1, whenever after the running dance he falls on the ground, wearing the sacred garment of fawn skin, hunting the blood of the slain goat, a raw-eaten delight, rushing to the  Phrygian, the Lydian mountains, and the leader of the dance is Bromius, evoe! 2 The plain flows with milk, it flows with wine, it flows with the nectar of bees.  The Bacchic one, raising the flaming torch of pine on his thyrsos, like the smoke of Syrian incense, darts about, arousing the wanderers with his racing and dancing, agitating them with his shouts,  casting his rich locks into the air. And among the Maenad cries his voice rings deep: 3 “Go, Bacchae, go, Bacchae, with the luxury of Tmolus that flows with gold,  sing of Dionysus, beneath the heavy beat of drums, celebrating in delight the god of delight with Phrygian shouts and cries,  when the sweet-sounding sacred pipe sounds a sacred playful tune suited  to the wanderers, to the mountain, to the mountain!” And the Bacchante, rejoicing like a foal with its grazing mother, rouses her swift foot in a gamboling dance.
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