that Teiresias is seeking him; he knows himself the reason of my coming and the compact I and he have made in our old age to bind the thyrsus with leaves and don the fawnskin, crowning our heads the while with ivy-sprays.
Cad. Best of friends! I was in the house when I heard thy voice, wise as its owner. I come prepared, dressed in the livery of the god. For ’tis but right I should magnify with all my might my own daughter’s son, Dionysus, who hath shown his godhead unto men.[1] Where are we to join the dance? where plant the foot and shake the hoary head? Do thou, Teiresias, be my guide, age leading age, for thou art wise. Never shall I weary, night or day, of beating the earth with my thyrsus. What joy to forget our years!
Tei. Why, then thou art as I am. For I too am young again, and will essay the dance.
Cad. We will drive then in our chariot to the hill.
Tei. Nay, thus would the god not have an equal honour paid.
Cad. Well, I will lead thee, age leading age.
Tei. The god will guide us both thither without toil.
Cad. Shall we alone of all the city dance in Bacchus’ honour?
Tei. Yea, for we alone are wise, the rest are mad.
Cad. We stay too long; come, take my hand.
Tei. There! link thy hand in my firm grip.
Cad. Mortal that I am, I scorn not the gods.
Tei. No subtleties do I indulge about the powers of heaven. The faith we inherited from our fathers, old as time itself, no reasoning shall cast down;[2] no! though it were the subtlest invention of wits refined. Maybe some one will say, I have no respect for my grey hair in going to dance with ivy round my head; not so, for the god did not define whether[3] old or young should dance, but from all alike he
