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. . . Daughter of Achelous,  venerable Dirce, happy virgin, you once received the child of Zeus in your streams, when Zeus his father snatched him up from the immortal fire and saved him in his thigh,  crying out: “Go, Dithyrambus, enter this my male womb. I will make you illustrious, Bacchus, in Thebes, so that they will call you by this name.”  But you, blessed Dirce, reject me with my garland-bearing company about you. Why do you refuse me, why do you flee me? I swear by the cluster-bearing  delight of Dionysus' vine that you will have a care for Bromius.
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