O hand of mine, how little hast thou done!
For, though I do not see the light of day
Which looked upon my crime, still am I seen.
Unclasp thy clinging hand from mine; permit10
My sightless feet to wander where they will.
I go, I go where my Cithaeron lifts
His rugged crags on high; where to his dogs
Actaeon, speeding through the rocky ways,
Became a booty strange and pitiful;
Where through the dim old woods and dusky glades,15