This said, the man began to disappear By slow degrees, and ended in a deer. A rising horn on either brow he wears, And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears; Rough is his skin, with sudden hairs o’ergrown, His bosom pants with fears before unknown; Transform’d 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 Actaeon! in a doleful tone He tried to speak, but only gave a groan; And as he wept, within the watery 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 skulk in woods? Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails, And each by turns his aching 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 chase, Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass.