And couch to quit with rising sun, has ever been my fate:Now must I Cybele's she-slave, priestess of gods, be hight?I Maenad I, mere bit of self, I neutral barren wight?I spend my life-tide couch't beneath high-towering Phrygian peaks?I dwell on Ida's verdant slopes mottled with snowy streaks,Where homes the forest-haunting doe, where roams the wildling boar?Now, now I rue my deed foredone, now, now it irks me sore!"Whenas from out those roseate lips these accents rapid flew,Bore them to ears divine consigned a Nuncio true and new;Then Cybele her lions twain disjoining from their yokeThe left-hand enemy of the herds a-goading thus bespoke:"Up feral fell! up, hie with him, see rage his foot-steps urge,See that his fury smite him till he seek the forest verge,