Bacchus monologue (Act 3) — Proserpine and Midas

I have wandered many hours through the paths And wildernesses of that ilex wood, Tracing where’er I went my tipsey friend By the red juice of grapes that stained the ground, And by the curling branches of the vines That, springing where he trod, have curled around The knotty trunks of those eternal trees. I too have lost my way; nor can I tell To what barbarian land the wanderer’s come. I hope no power contemptuous of mine Has hurt my foster-father;—Who comes here? ’Tis he surrounded by a jocund throng Of priests and bacchant women, bearing spears Blunted with pine cones & with ivy wreathed, And here and there they cry, “Bacchus! Evoe!” As if the Nysian impulse just began. And who is he who with a stately crown Outshines the rest? He seems to be a king; But were he even an ass on his hind legs He shall have rich reward if he have saved And welcomed with due honour my old faun.