nam Tyrios sudare lares et sanguine Dircen irriguam fetusque novos iterumque locutam Sphinga petris, cui non et scire licentia passim et vidisse fuit? novus his super anxia turbat corda metus: sparsis subito correpta canistris silvestris regina chori decurrit in aequum vertice ab Ogygio trifidamque huc tristis et illuc lumine sanguineo pinum disiectat et ardens erectam attonitis implet clamoribus urbem: omnipotens Nysaee pater, cui gentis avitae pridem lapsus amor, tu nunc horrente sub Arcto bellica ferrato rapidus quatis Ismara thyrso pampineumque iubes nemus irreptare Lycurgo,.
For who, wherever he might be, had not licence to know and be eyewitness to Tyrian household gods sweating, Dirce running blood, strange births, and the Sphinx speaking again among her rocks? Above all this, new terror troubles their anxious hearts: the queen of the woodland choir  is suddenly caught up; scattering the baskets, she runs down from the Ogygian summit into the plain and grimly with bloodshot eyes waves her triple pine to and fro, in her passion filling the startled city with frenzied cries: Nysaean father almighty, you have long since shed your love for your ancestral people. Now under the shivering Bear you run with iron-tipped wand shaking warlike Ismara and command the vine-clad forest to creep over Lycurgus;
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book4.json