throwing my head to the dewy air, like a fawn sporting in the green pleasures of the meadow, when it has escaped a fearful chase beyond the watchers over the well-woven nets, and the hunter hastens his dogs on their course with his call, while she, with great exertion and a storm-swift running, rushes along the plain by the river, rejoicing in the solitude apart from men and in the thickets of the shady-foliaged woods.
What is wisdom? Or what greater honor do the gods give to mortals than to hold one’s hand in strength over the head of enemies? What is good is always dear. Chorus Divine strength is roused with difficulty, but still is sure. It chastises those mortals