Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/153

Book 3. Rough is his Skin, with sudden Hairs o'er-grown, His Bosom pants with Fears before unknown: Transformed at length, he flies away in haste, And wonders why he flies away so fast. But as by chance, within a neighb'ring Brook, He saw his branching Horns and alter'd Look, Wretched Actæon! in a doleful Tone He try'd to speak, but only gave a Groan; And as he wept, within the watry Glass He saw the big round Drops, with silent Pace, Run trickling down a savage hairy Face. What should he do? Or seek his old Abodes, Or herd among the Deer, and sculk in Woods! Here Shame dissuades him, there his Fear prevails, And each by turns his aking Heart assails. As he thus ponders, he behind him spies His op'ning Hounds, and now he hears their Cries: A gen'rous Pack, or to maintain the Chace, Or snuff the Vapour from the scented Grass. He bounded off with Fear, and swiftly ran O'er craggy Mountains, and the flow'ry Plain; Through Brakes and Thickets forc'd his Way, and flew Through many a Ring, where once he did pursue. In vain he oft endeavour'd to proclaim His new Misfortune, and to tell his Name; Nor Voice nor Words the brutal Tongue supplies; From shouting Men, and Horns, and Dogs he flies, Deafened and stunn'd with their promiscuous Cries. When now the fleetest of the Pack, that prest Close at his Heels, and sprung before the rest, Had fasten'd on him, straight another Pair, Hung on his wounded Haunch, and held him there, 'Till all the Pack came up, and ev'ry Hound Tore the sad Huntsman grov'ling on the Ground, Who now appear'd but one continu'd Wound. Rh