She in her hair, when life returns again, Fastens her hand; and on her lovely cheeks, Repeating the beloved name in vain, With all her force her scorn and fury wreaks;
Uproots and tears, her locks, and in her pain Like woman, smit by evil demon, shrieks, Or, as Bacchante at the horn's rude sound, Erewhile was seen to run her restless round.
