39
“Aye had I deemèd, mighty Father mine, in whatsoe’er my loving breast preferrèd, to find thee kind and affable and benign, e’en though of hostile heart the hate were stirrèd: But as I see thine ire to me incline, ire undeserv’ed—to thee I ne’er have errèd— let Bacchus triumph with his wicked will; while in his weal I sit and wail mine ill.