“Ah, my master, Dionysus. I drink to your health, your wealth and your Godly stealth. You are highest among Gods, oh grape one!
God of wine; God of fruit and God of fruitfulness. God of fertility, though when feasting on the fruits of your grape, we find it hard to be fertile – hardly able to rise to the occasion. Unlike your esteemed thyrus, wound with ivy and dripping with honey, I – a mere mortal – am unable to drip my honey from my own thyrus, as my staff falls limp after several barrels of your sacred wine.
Though the maiden may be naked and wound around my thyrus – urging my staff to rise and send lightning through her body, in imitation of your father, the great Zeus, the power of your grape overcomes all my manly desires and though I dance and sing in ritual ecstasy and virtual insanity, I can raise nothing more than a smile – and my voice, as I sing your praises in drunken celebration.
Through the power of your wine, I lose my ability to make the maiden moan –and am reduced to making her whine.
That is my sacrifice to you, Dionysus…”