Xanthias.
What? Surely you don't mean to take away
Your own gift?
Dionysus.
Mean it? No; I'm doing it!
Off with that lion-skin, quick.
[Begins to strip off the lion-skin by force.
Xanthias.
Help! I'm assaulted . . .
[Giving way.
I leave it with the Gods!
Dionysus (proceeding to dress himself again).
The Gods, indeed!
What senseless vanity to expect to be
Alcmena's son, a mortal and a slave!
Xanthias.
Well, take it. I don't care.—The time may be,
God willing, when you'll feel the need of me!
Chorus.
That's the way such points to settle,
Like a chief of tested mettle,
Weather-worn on many seas,
Not in one fixed pattern stopping,
Like a painted thing, but dropping
Always towards the side of ease.
'Tis this instinct for soft places,
To keep warm while others freeze,
Marks a man of gifts and graces,
Like our own Theramenes!
