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No Dionysus is here, no dances, no Bacchic worship and carrying his wand,  no ecstatic noise of drums by the gushing springs of water, no fresh drops of wine. Nor on Mount Nysa can I join the Nymphs in singing the song ‘Iacchos Iacchos’  to Aphrodite, whom I swiftly pursued in company with white-footed Bacchants. Ah me, lord Dionysus, where are you faring without your companions,  shaking your golden hair? I, your attendant, serve this one-eyed Cyclops, a slave in exile,  dressed in this wretched goat-skin cloak and deprived of your friendship.