Chorus
No Dionysus is here, no dances, no Bacchic worship and carrying his wand,
[65]
no ecstatic noise of drums by the gushing springs of water, no fresh drops of wine. Nor on Mount Nysa can I join the Nymphs in singing the song ‘Iacchos Iacchos’
[70]
to Aphrodite, whom I swiftly pursued in company with white-footed Bacchants. Ah me, lord Dionysus, where are you faring without your companions,
[75]
shaking your golden hair? I, your attendant, serve this one-eyed Cyclops, a slave in exile,
[80]
dressed in this wretched goat-skin cloak and deprived of your friendship.