A father now no more⁠—who now begun

Around his head to whirl his giddy son,

And, quite insensible to nature’s call,

The helpless infant flung against the wall.

The same mad poison in the mother wrought;

Young Melicerta in her arms she caught,

And with disordered tresses, howling, flies,

‘O Bacchus, Evôe, Bacchus!’ loud she cries.