Book IX, 561

What desert, sunless hill of Northern Scythia nourished thee, wild vine? Or was it the eternal ice of the snowy Celtic Alps or the iron-bearing soil of Spain—thee, who didst bear the sour grapes, the unripened clusters—that yielded this harsh juice? I seek for thy hands, Lycurgus, to tear up by the roots the whole plant of that vine, the mother of crude fruit.