“This forging slave,” says Pentheus, “would prevail O’er our just fury by a far-fetch’d tale: Go; let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire, And in the tortures of the rack expire.” The officious servants hurry him away, And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. But, while the whips and tortures are prepared, The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr’d; At liberty the unfetter’d captive stands, And flings the loosen’d shackles from his hands.