478Here once, from a sickness of the air, a pitiable season arose, and blazed with all the heat of autumn, and gave every race of cattle and every race of wild beasts to death, and polluted the lakes and tainted the pastures with corruption. 482Nor was the way of death simple, but when fiery thirst, driven through all the veins, had shrivelled the wretched limbs, again a fluid liquid overflowed and drew into itself all the bones, collapsing piecemeal with the disease. 486Often in the midst of the gods' worship, a victim standing at the altar, while the woollen fillet with its snowy band was being wound about it, fell dying among the hesitating attendants.
489Or if the priest had slain any beforehand with the steel, the altars do not blaze when the entrails are laid on them, nor can the seer, when consulted, give replies, and the knives placed beneath are scarcely stained with blood, and the surface of the sand is darkened only with thin gore. 494Hence calves die everywhere in the glad pastures, and give up their sweet lives at full mangers; 496hence madness comes to fawning dogs, and a gasping cough shakes the sick swine and chokes them with swollen throats. 498The victorious horse sinks down, unhappy, forgetful of his pursuits and of the grass, and turns from springs and strikes the ground repeatedly with his hoof; 500his ears droop, a fitful sweat breaks out there, cold indeed in those about to die; the hide is dry and stiff, and resists the touch of the handler.
503These signs they give in the first days before death; 504but if in its progress the disease has begun to grow fierce, then indeed the eyes are burning and the breath is drawn from deep within, sometimes heavy with a groan, and they strain their lowest flanks with long sobbing; black blood runs from the nostrils, and the rough tongue presses on the blocked throat. 509It helped to pour in draughts of Lenaean wine through an inserted horn; 510this seemed the only salvation for the dying; 511soon this very thing was their ruin, and, restored only to frenzy, they burned, and themselves, at the onset of failing death — may the gods grant better things to the righteous, and that madness to our enemies! — tore at their own mangled limbs with bared teeth.
515But look, the bull, steaming under the heavy ploughshare, falls, and vomits from his mouth blood mixed with foam, and utters his last groans. 517The sad ploughman goes, unyoking the bullock that grieves at its brother's death, and leaves the plough stuck fast in the middle of the work. 520No shades of lofty groves, no soft meadows can stir his spirit, no stream that, rolling over rocks, purer than amber, seeks the plain; 522but his flanks give way below, a stupor weighs on his dull eyes, and his neck sinks to the ground with drooping weight.