Nonnus of Panopolis, Dionysiaca 33.0–104: Book 33: Pasithea tells Aphrodite of Dionysos' madness; Eros at play

In the thirty-third, furious Love masters Morrheus, and sets him aflame for the beauty of Chalcomedeia.

But Bacchos himself, rushed away kneequick like a horned bull, carried in long leaps by his wandering feet, puffing deadly breath in the flood of his frenzied madness.

One of the swiftshoe Graces was gathering the shoots of the fragrant reeds in the Erythraian garden, in order to mix the flowing juice of Assyrian oil with Indian flowers in the steaming cauldrons of Paphos, and make ointment for her Lady. While she plucked all manner of dew-wet plants she gazed all round the place ; and there in a forest not far off she saw the madness of Lyaios her father. She wept for sorrow and tender affection, and tore her cheeks with her nails in mourning. Then she saw the Satyrs scurrying from battle; she distinguished Codone and Gigarto, dead too soon, lying on the dust unburied ; she pitied Chalcomede fleeing with stormswift shoe from the blade of furious Morrheus—and indeed she was shaken with jealousy of the rosy-cheek maiden, for fear she might win the day with radiant Aphrodite.

Sorrowing she returned to heaven, but she hid her grief for Lyaios her father in mournful silence. Pallor displaced the bloom on her rounded cheek, and dimmed the bright radiance of her face.

Cypris, the lover of Adonis, saw Pasithea downcast, and understood the grief heralded by her silent face ; then she addressed to her these comforting words :

“Dear girl, what trouble has changed your looks ? Maiden, what has made you lose your ruddy looks ? Who has quenched the gleams of springtime from your face? ‘The silvery sheen shines no longer upon your skin, your eyes no longer laugh as before. Come now, tell me your anxieties. Are you plagued by my son, perhaps? Are you in love with some herdsman, among the mountains, struck with desire, like Selene ? Has Eros perhaps flicked you also with the cestus, like Dawn once before ?—Ah, I know why your cheeks are pale: shadowy Sleep, the vagabond, woos you as a bridegroom woos a maid! I will not compel you if you are unwilling ; I will not join Sleep the blackskin to Pasithea the lilywhite !

When Aphrodite had said this, the Charis weeping replied :

“O mother of the Loves! O-sower of life in the everlasting universe! No herdsman troubles me, no bold desire of Sleep. I am no lovesick Dawn or Selene. No, I am tormented by the afflictions of Lyaios my father, driven about in terror by the Furies. He is your brother—protect Dionysos if you can!”

Then she recounted all her father’s afflictions to her mistress, and the countless ranks of Bassarids that Morrheus had killed, and all the fugitive host of Satyrs, even Dionysos lashed with the fury’s whip, and wailing Gigarto gasping on the ground, and Codone gone before her season: with shame she described the sorrows and beauty of Chalcomedeia.

Then sweetsmiling Aphrodite put off the wonted laugh from her radiant rosy face, and told her messenger Aglaia to call Eros her son, that swift airy flyer, that guide to the fruitful increase of the human race.

The Charis moved her footsteps, and turned her face this way and that way over earth and sea and sky, if somewhere she might find the restless track of Eros—for he beats his wings everywhere circling the four separate regions of the universe.

She found him on the golden top of Olympos, shooting the nectar-drops from a cup. Beside him stood Hymenaios, his fairhaired playfellow in the dainty game. He had put up as a prize for the victor something clever made by his haughty mother Urania, who knew all the courses of the stars, a revolving globe like the speckled form of Argos; winged Eros had taken and put up a round golden necklace which belonged to his mother sea-born Aphrodite, a shining glorious work of art, as a prize of victory. A large silver basin stood for their game, and the shooting mark before them was a statue of Hebe shown in the middle pouring the wine. The umpire in the game was adorable Ganymedes, cupbearer of Cronides, holding the garland. Lots were cast for the shots of unmixed wine, with varied movements of the fingers: these they held out, these they pressed upon the root of the hand closely joined together. A charming match it was between them.

Daintyhair Hymenaios drew the first try. He took the cup, and shot the flying nectar-drop high in the air over the basin; but he offered no prayer then to his mother the Muse : darting from the cup the dew went scattering high through the air, but the leaping drops turned aside and swerving fell back about the face of the statue so as to touch the top of the head without a sound.’ Second, crafty Eros took hold of the lovely cup in a masterly way, and secretly in his heart prayed to Cyprogeneia; then with a steady eye on the mark, he shot the liquid into the distance—the dewy nectar went straight, unswerving, and curved round until it fell from the air upon the forehead above the temple with a loud plop. The elegant statue rang, and the basin echoed the sound of victory for the golden son of Cyprogeneia. Ganymedes laughing handed the dainty garland to Eros. Quickly he picked up the beautiful necklace and lifted the globe, and kept the two prizes of their cleverdrop game. Bold Eros went skipping and dancing for joy and turned a somersault, and tried often to pull his rival’s hands from his sorrowful face.