He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran O’er craggy mountains and the flow’ry plain, Through brakes and thickets forced 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, Deafen’d and stunn’d with their promiscuous cries. When now the fleetest of the pack, that press’d 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 every hound Tore the sad huntsman grovelling on the ground, Who now appear’d but one continued wound. With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans, And fills the mountain with his dying groans. His servants with a piteous look he spies, And turns about his supplicating eyes. His servants, ignorant of what had chanced, With eager haste and joyful shouts advanced, And call’d their lord, Actaeon, to the game; He shook his head in answer to the name;