And for a little, by its master held,1100
The car stood still. The horses by that wound
Were held awhile, but soon they break delay—
And break their master too. While on they rush,
The whipping branches cut his dying form,
The rough and thorny brambles tear his flesh,
And every bush retains its part of him.
Now bands of servants scour those woeful fields,1105
Those places where Hippolytus was dragged,
And where his bloody trail directs the way;