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Enter the Cyclops from the cave, leaning on Silenus.
 Happy the man who shouts the Bacchic cry, off to the revel, the well-beloved juice of the vine putting the wind in his sails. His arm is around his trusty friend, and he has waiting for him  the fresh, young body of his voluptuous mistress upon her bed, and with his locks all gleaming with myrrh he says, ‘Who will open the door for me?’