Writhed round it: the flesh ’twixt ankle and calf in his fangs hath he ta’en, {1520}
And he tare it, the while Medea and all her handmaids fled
In affright. Howbeit the seer was handling, nothing adread,
The bleeding wound; for the pain not grievously vexed his soul.
Ah wretch!—for already a numbness of deadly slumber stole
Unstringing his sinews: a thick mist flooded his eyes all round.
Straightway his burdened limbs all helplessly sank to the ground,
And chill did he grow. And his comrades, and Aison’s son, amazed
At the strokes fast-falling of doom, on the dead man thronging gazed.
Yet not for a little space, albeit but newly dead,