Chorus.
Art glad?
Agave.
I am fain
For the triumph achieved, both goodly and great, and plain
For the land to see, in the booty mine hands have ta'en.
Chorus.
Show forth now, hapless one, to all the folk 1200
The triumph-spoil that hither thou hast brought.
Agave.
Ye, in the fair-towered burg of Theban land
Which dwell, draw nigh to look upon this prey,
The beast we, Kadmus' daughters, hunted down—
Not with the thong-whirled darts of Thessaly, 1205
Neither with nets, but with the fingers white
Of our own hands. What boots the idle vaunt
Of men who get them tools by armourers wrought,
When we, with bare hands only, took the prey,
And rent asunder all the monster's limbs? 1210
Where is mine ancient sire? Let him draw near.
And my son Pentheus where? Let him upraise
A ladder's stair against the palace wall,
That to the triglyphs he may nail this head,
This lion's head that I from hunting bring. 1215
Enter Kadmus, with attendants carrying a bier.
Kadmus.
Follow me, henchmen, to the palace-front;
Follow me, bearing Pentheus' ghastly load,
