Actaeon was the first of all his race, Who grieved his grandsire in his borrow’d face, Condemn’d by stern Diana to bemoan The branching horns and visage not his own; To shun his once loved dogs, to bound away, And from their huntsman to become their prey. And yet consider why the change was wrought, You’ll find it his misfortune, not his fault; Or, if a fault, it was the fault of chance: For how can guilt proceed from ignorance?