| Some say in Drakanos, others in windy Ikaros, | |
| still others say in Naxos, O Bullgod son of Zeus, | |
| or there by the deep-eddying river Alpheos, | |
| pregnant Semele bore you to thunder-loving Zeus. | |
| Others say you were born in Thebes, Lord, | |
| but all of them lie: the father of men and gods gave birth | |
| to you far from people, hidden from white-armed Hera. | |
| Nysa is the place, a mighty peak blooming with woods, | |
| far from Phoenicia, near the river Nile. | |
| None of the human race sails there, | 10 |
| with no harbor for their curved ships, | |
| for a high, steep cliff encircles it. | |
| Yet it grows many lovely delicacies . . . | |
| [missing lines] | |
| [Vines] lush with their clusters of dark grapes . . . | |
| [missing lines] | |
| [Zeus to Hera:] | |
| “. . . you wish. How could you suffer more shamefully? | |
| I too acted foolishly . . . | |
| . . . Hephaistos left on his own . . . | |
| . . . as they assume forever . . . | |
| He tricked you, binding you in chains from Tartaros. | |
| Who, my dear, can free you? A painful belt | 20 |
| wraps around your body, while Hephaistos | |
| pays no mind to command or plea, | |
| but devises firm resolve in his heart. | |
| Sister, you bore a cruel son . . . . | |
| crafty though lame . . . | |
| . . . before his feet . . . good . . . | |
| . . . he rages . . . | |
| . . . angry . . . | |
| Let us see if he will soften his iron heart at all. | |
| Two smart sons of mine are handy | 30 |
| to help in your troubles—Ares is one, | |
| who wields a sharp spear, a tough fighter . . . | |
| And there is Dionysos . . . | |
| But Hephaistos better not start a contest with me | |
| or he will stagger away struck by my lightning. | |
| . . . sweet . . . | |
| . . . this boy of mine . . . | |
| [missing lines] | |
| People will raise many statues in his temples. | |
| Since there are three . . . , every third year | |
| humans will always sacrifice a hundred perfect bulls.” | 40 |
| So spoke the son of Kronos nodding his dark-blue brows— | |
| the king’s divine hair swirled about | |
| his immortal head, as he shook great Olympos. | |
| With those words, wise Zeus nodded his command. | |
| Be gracious, Bullgod, maker of maenads. | |
| We bards sing of you first and last; there is no way | |
| to forget you and still remember holy song. | |
| O Dionysos, Bullgod son of Zeus, rejoice | |
| with your mother Semele, whom some call Thyone. | |