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Bacchus

Quotes about Bacchus

225 quotes about Bacchus.

Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus would freeze.

in The Eunuch (Eunuchus) (161 B.C.)Report problemRelated quotes
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Beloved Porcupine

Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine,
Confirmed it is; earth turns around a critter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.

How could thee misbehave to a crit benign?
sly vulturettes desired the round flitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine.

Now who will stand on supermarket line?
guilty thou art, dishonored and quitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.

Thou shalt nought mistreat a love so divine
In slopes thy porcupine will slide 'n' skitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine

Thy porcupine cared for Italian, to dine;
In poem verses betwixt, embraced emitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.

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Bacchus

Who was Bacchus

and why
was he

the most
celebrated of the gods?

Bacchus is the Greek name
of the Roman god Dionysus

the god of the vine
the god of inspiration
bestower of ecstasy
and ecstatic liberation.

What was sacred
to Bacchus?

The grape, ivy and rose

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Dregs Have Flown

Red wine like warm blood
flowed from our glasses.
Invigorating finely tuned senses
where race inherited memory reclined.

Taste on titillated etherized tongues
has tang exploiting grape crushed peel
sweet wine courting chilled flute
melodies dance expunging former mire.

Sunset red pink rose purple
blooming across arching horizon
night an ink black vesper veil
dried over coagulated rusted wounds.

Life transposes in transubstantiation transitions
rendering real time lost archaic reality.
Changing perceived natural chaotic order
into radiant wine born illusive illusory lulled time.

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Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.

in Gnomologia (1732)Report problemRelated quotes
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Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.

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Without ceres and Bacchus, Venus grows cold.

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John Keats

Song of the Indian Maid, from 'Endymion

O SORROW!
   Why dost borrow
   The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?--
   To give maiden blushes
   To the white rose bushes?
   Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

   O Sorrow!
   Why dost borrow
   The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?--
   To give the glow-worm light?
   Or, on a moonless night,
   To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

   O Sorrow!
   Why dost borrow
   The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?--
   To give at evening pale
   Unto the nightingale,
   That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

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The Helot

I.

Low the sun beat on the land,
Red on vine and plain and wood;
With the wine-cup in his hand,
Vast the Helot herdsman stood.


II.

Quench'd the fierce Achean gaze,
Dorian foemen paus'd before,
Where cold Sparta snatch'd her bays
At Achaea's stubborn door.


III.

Still with thews of iron bound,
Vastly the Achean rose,

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Love would soon perish, unless nourished by Ceres and Bacchus.

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A Tavern feast

Gay Bacchus liking B---s wine
A noble meal bespoke
& for ye guests that were to dine
Brought Comus Love & Joke
The God near Cupid drew his chair
& Joke by Comus plact
Thus wine makes Love forget his care
& Mirth exalts a feast
To make it more deserve ye God
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some cloaths to come abroad
& took a waiters place
Then Cupid namd for ev'ry glass
A Lady of ye sky
& Bacchus swore he'd drink ye ye Lass
& had it bumper high
Fat Comus tossd his brimmers o're
& allways gott ye most
For Joke took care to fill him more
When ere he missd ye toast

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Ambrose Bierce

Bacchus, n.: A convenient deity invented by the ancients as an excuse for getting drunk.

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Anacreontick I

Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's Wine,
A noble Meal bespoke;
And for the Guests that were to Dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Joke.
The God near Cupid drew his Chair,
And Joke near Comus plac'd;
Thus Wine makes Love forget its Care,
And Mirth exalts a Feast.
The more to please the sprightly God,
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some Cloaths to come abroad,
And took a Waiters Place.
Then Cupid nam'd at every Glass
A Lady of the Sky;
While Bacchus swore he'd Drink the Lass,
And had it Bumper high.
Fat Comus tost his Brimmers o're,
And always got the most;
For Joke took care to fill him more,
When-e'er he mist the Toast.

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Master And Servant

The devil to Bacchus said, one day,
In a scowling, growling, petulant way,
As he came from earth to hell:
'There's a soul above that I cannot move,
And I've struggled long and well;
He's a manly youth, with an eye of truth,
A fellow of matchless grace;
And he looks me through with his eye of blue
Till I cower before his face.
The very power and strength of heaven
To this young, fearless soul were given;
For I've never an art that can reach his heart,
And I cannot snare his feet:
I have wasted days in devising ways,
And now must cry 'Defeat!''
And the devil scowled, and grumbled, and growled,
And beat about with his cane,
Till the demons fled over the burning waste
Out of his reach in hurrying haste,
Howling aloud in pain.

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How Yearn I For A Potioned Wine – This Night!

How yearn I for a potioned wine – this night!
How race and run the drops of blood
How race the red, red drops of blood – this night!

How from the face of heaven the clouds
Seem swept away by some full-scathing broom
How smiling the pale moon!

Ah! methinks that the moon, the modest moon
Has in itself somehow sometime infused
The red, red drops of Bacchus – lo in it
The wanness cool is turning to a red
And on its cheek already ruddying goeth:
And merry looks the moon this merry night.

Never would I have thought the moon to be
Votary of Bacchus and his ivied green:
Nor of its conquest by the sweaty arms
Of satyrs fauns and nymphs of Bacchus wild:

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Charles Lamb

The Godlike

In one great man we view with odds
A parallel to all the gods.
Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow,
Could never match his princely bow.
In him a Bacchus we behold:
Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old.
Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover;
And then he's Mercury-all over.
A Vulcan, for domestic strife,
He lamely lives without his wife.
And sure-unless our wits be dull-
Minerva-like, when moon was full,
He issued from paternal skull.


R. et R.

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0289 Bacchus, god of poetry and wine

The famous Poet Laureate
of North Dakota State
has been suspended on full pay
just because one merry day
attending a writers' conference
at a restaurant, under the influence
of the Bacchic nectar he'd imbibed
there were incidents, yet undescribed.
But his students have Larry Woiwode's promise
to deal with their theses on Dylan Thomas
and other poets. Ironic, it must seem
to all those drunk with poetry, in Academe?

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Ludwig van Beethoven

Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.

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Give Me the Harp of Epic Song

Give me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board tonight;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Oh Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety!
And flash around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught!
Then give the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing!

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For a Tripod Erected by Damoteles to Bacchus

The precentor Damoteles, Bacchus, exalts
Your tripod, and, sweetest of deities, you.
He was champion of men, if his boyhood had faults;
And he ever loved honour and seemliness too.

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