And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and ill,How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately blind,And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded scorn,And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.Cupid's mother, cruel dame,And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,Bid me kindle into flameThis heart, by waning passion now left cold.