With painted reins, all glittering from afar, The spotted Lynxes proudly draw thy car; Around the Bacchae and the Satyrs throng, Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along; On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride. Still at thy near approach applauses loud Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd; Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries, Swell up in sounds confused and rend the skies. Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore, And act thy secret orgies o’er and o’er.

But Mineus’ daughters, while these rites were paid, At home impertinently busy stay’d; Their wicked tasks they ply with various art, And through the loom the sliding shuttle dart, Or at the fire to comb the wool they stand, Or twirl the spindle with a dext’rous hand. Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in, Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin. At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew To draw nice threads, and wind the finest clue,