Category Archives: Vergil

Vergil, Aeneid 6.450-476

Among whom, Phoenician Dido, recent from a wound,
wandered in the great forest; near to whom the Trojan
hero stood at first, and recognized, obscured through
the shades, as one sees, or thinks to have seen,
the moon rise through the clouds in the first month,
he loosed tears and spoke to his cherished one with love:
“Unlucky Dido, is the message come to me true, that you
killed yourself with the sword, and that your death followed?
Alas, was this the cause of the funeral to you? I swear by the
heavens and by the gods, if any hope is under deepest earth,
unwilling, queen, have I departed from your shore.
But the decrees of the gods, which now go through these shades,
force me through thorny places in position and vast night,
to lack your kingdom; nor was I able to believe
that I would bring this great sadness to you from departure.
Stay your step and withdraw yourself from our sight.
What do you flee? By fate, this is the last I address you.”
With such words, Aeneas did try to sooth her ardent
soul, and roused himself to tears.
She did hold her eyes fixed to the averted ground,
Nor the more was her appearance moved by begun entreaty,
than if she stood as enduring flint or Marpesian mountain.
At last, she stole herself away, and, hateful, fled
to the shade-bearing grove, where Sychaeus, former husband
to her, addressed her cares and returned her love.
Nor the less did Aeneas, stricken by her hurtful departure,
follow in length with tears, and lament her departing.


Vergil, Aeneid 6.98-211

With such spoken from the inner sanctum, the Cumaean
Sibyll sang horrid mysteries and bellowed within the cave,
wrapping truths in obscurities: she shook her reins by
raging, and Apollo turned his goads under her heart.
As soon as the fury departed and the raging mouths quieted,
the hero Aeneas began: “Not any new or unexpected
appearance of labours rises for me, o maiden;
I have forseen all and in my mind endured all before it fell.
I ask one thing: since the door of the infernal king here is said
to be, and the the gloomy swamp with the Acheron poured back,
might it befall me to go to the sight and speech of my dear father;
would that you might you teach me the way and open the sacred doors.
I have carried him through flames and a thousand seeking spears
with these shoulders and have taken him from the enemy’s midst;
he has attended my journey through all seas and he did endure
with me all of the seas and the threats of heaven,
feeble, beyond the strength and lot of old age.
In fact, he, entreating this, did give me his charges that I might seek
you as a suppliant and go to your thresholds. Pity both the son and
father, I entreat you, kindly one (for you can do all, nor did Hecate in
vain place you in the charge of the Avernian groves),
if Orpheus was able to summon the shade of his wife
to Thrace, relying on his lyre and musical strings,
if Pollux did redeem his brother from the other’s death and he
goes along the path as many times as he returns. What of Theseus,
what memory of great Hercules? And my kind is from greatest Jove!”

He entreated her with such words, and held her altars, when the
prophetess having begun spoke thus: “Begotten from the blood of the
gods; Trojan from Anchises, the descent from Avernus is easy:
the door of black Dis lies open days and nights;
but to recall your step and to escape through lofty winds,
this is your work, your labour. Few, whom equal Jupiter
has loved or whom burning youth has carried through the skies,
are able to be born from death.
and the Cocytus, falling, encircles the black bay.
But, if such love and if such desire is in your mind,
to twice navigate the Stygian lakes, to twice see black
Tartarus, and it pleases you to indulge in this mad work,
firstly accept what must be accomplished. A gold branch with a
pliant stem and with leaves lies hidden in a grove.
said to be sacred to the infernal queen; the whole grove protects
this and shadows enclose the grove in the dark valleys.
But it is not before it is given that the golden-haired youths, any who
will have plucked it from the tree, go to the hidden places of the earth
Beautiful Proserpina has ordained that this gift of hers be brought
to her. With this having been firstly torn off, another golden branch
will not lack, and a twig will sprout of similar metal.
Therefore search loftily with your eyes and pursue properly the found
way by hand; for, yourself wishing, an easier time follows,
if the fates call you; otherwise you will not be able to excel
among any other men, nor to uproot yourself from hard iron.
Further, the lifeless body of the friend to you lies (alas that
you are unknowing) and it defiles your whole fleet with its death,
as long as you seek oracles and hang at our threshold.
Return this before your seat and construct it a sepulchre.
Lead black cows; let these be your first expiations.
Thus, at last, you might behold the groves of the Styx and the pathless
kingdoms with the living.” She spoke, and hushed, with her mouth controlled.

Aeneas, having cast down his eyes from his gloomy face,
stepped forth, leaving the cave, and he turned over the blind outcomes
outcomes in his mind. Faithful Achates goes to him as a
companion, and with equal worries fixes his tracks.
They discuss much in varied conversation among themselves,
of which lifeless companion, what interring corpse, the seer
did speak. And they see, as they come, Misenus,
ruined in unmerited death, upon that dry shore,
Aeolian Misenus, than whom no other is more excellent
with the trumpet to rally men and to arouse Mars by song.
This ally was of great Hector, and he did enter battles
near to Hector, marked in respect to trumpet and spear.
After the victor Achilles robbed Hector of life,
the strong hero added himself as a companion
to Dardanian Aeneas, not following those lesser.

But then, by chance, as he made the seas resound by his hollow conch,
foolish, and calls the gods into contest with respect to song,
Jealous Triton, if his dignity is to be believed, immersed the
received man in the foamy water among the rocks.
Therefore, all around lament with a great murmur,
especially loyal Aeneas. Then he, weeping, hastens, hardly
a delay, the decrees of the Sibyl, and strives to heap up
altars in the woods and to raise tombs to the sky.
It goes into the ancient forest, to the great dens of wild things;
the pines fall, the oak sounds, having been smitten by axes
and ashen timbres and easily-cut oak are cut
into seats; they roll great ash trees from the mountains.

Nor does Aeneas not firstly encourage his men among such
works, and gird himself with equal armaments.
And he himself turns these things with his sad heart,
looking out at the great forest, and speaks thus with a voice:
“If now that golden branch from the tree would display itself
in such a grove! For truly, Misenus, the oracle
has spoken (alas, in excess) all things about you.”
Scarcely were these things spoken, when by chance twin doves
flying from the sky came to the very sight of the man,
and sat on the green earth. Then the greatest hero
recognizes the maternal birds and speaks, joyous:
“Be leaders, o you, if there is any road, and a way, lead us
through the airs to the groves where the rich branch overhangs
the fertile ground. And you, o godly parent, do not fail with
wavering fortunes.” Thus having expounded, he presses his steps,
observing what signs they bear, how they proceed to press on.
Feeding, they advance so far by flying, as much as they
are able to keep with sharp gaze in respect to following.
When they came thence to the jaws of heavily-smelling Avernus,
they bear themselves quickly, and they settle above the double tree,
having laboured through the airs with seats having been sought,
whence many colours of gold shine through the branches from gold.
In such frigid winter, mistletow is accustomed in the forests
to grow with new foliage, which does not bear its own trees,
and gives smooth trunks to its yellow offspring,
such is the appearance of the leafy gold from the dark
oak tree, thus a thin sheet rattles in a light wind.
Aeneas snatches it at once, and, eager, breaks it, hesitating,
off, and carries it under the roofs of the prophetess Sibyll.

Vergil, Aeneid 4.642-705

And trembling and wild Dido, turning her bloody eyesight
from the monstrous undertakings, and suffused with splotches
in respect to her trembling cheeks, and wan for death about to be,
broke into the inner threshold of the house and, frenzied,
mounted the high funeral pyre and unsheathed the sword
of the Trojan, the gift not having been asked for these uses.
Here, after she saw the Trojan vestments and familiar
bed, she, having hesitated, reclined somewhat on the bed with
tears and mind and spoke final words:
“Sweet mementos, while god did allow such fates,
accept this spirit and release me from these worries.
I have lived and Fortune has given such a course to be completed,
and now my great image will go under the lands.
I have established a renowned city, seen my bulwarks;
avenged, I have accepted payment from the hated brother of men;
I would have been fortunate—alas, excessively fortunate—if
the Trojan ships had never reached our shores.”
She spoke, and pressed her mouth to the bed: “We, unavenged, will die,
but let us die,” she affirms. “Thus, thus he helps me to go under the shades.
Let the Trojan drink in hence the fire with his cruel eyes from
the sea, and let him bear all of our death with him.”

She had spoken, and her compatriots beheld her, collapsed on the sword,
through the midst of such things, and they say through her spread hands
the sword foaming with blood. A clamour goes to the high
atria: Rumour rages through the shaken city.
With lamentation and with a groan and with a feminine wait
the houses boil; heaven resounds with great wailings,
not other than if all Carthage or ancient Tyre falls
from enemies having been let in, and raging flames
are turned both through the roofs of men and of gods.
The breathless sister heard, and, terrified, rushed through their midst
along the trembling path, defiling her mouth with wails and her breast
with fists, and she called to her, dying, by name:
“Was this that, sister? Did you ask me with deceit?
By this is the funeral pyre itself mine, and did the altar’s fires prepare this?
Why do I, deserted, firstly, complain? Dying, did you scorn your
sister and fleet? Would that you had called me to the fates themselves:
would that the sadness and that time had carried us both to iron.
Indeed, have I built with these hands, and have I called our ancestral
gods with a voice that, with you thusly places, I might be absent?
I have killed you and me, sister, and the people, and Sidonian ancestors,
and your city. Give help that I might wash with waters the wounds,
and that, if her last breath wanders about her, I might
catch it in a kiss.” Having spoken thusly, she mounts high steps,
and, embraced, cherished her dying sister in her lap
with lamentation and she did staunch the black bloods with her garb.
Again, she, having tried, failed to raise her heavy eyes;
the pierced wound under her breast gurgled.
Thrice having struggled, she lifted herself, raising herself with an arm,
thrice she has been released in the bed, and, with wandering eyes,
seeks light in the high sky, and laments it having been found.

Then omnipotent Juno, having pitied the long sorrow and
painful deaths, sent Iris from Olympus
who might release her struggling spirit and bound limbs.
Indeed, because she did not perish by fate or earned death,
but, miserable, before her day, and, incensed, with sudden madness;
not yet had Proserpina taken away from her head tawny hair
and condemned her head to Stygian Orcus.
Therefore, dewy Iris flies down through the sky on yellow wings,
carrying a thousand different colours with the sun facing,
and stood ready above Dido’s head. “I, bidden, take this
offerring to Dis and I release you from that body.”
Thus she affirms and with her right hand cuts a hair: and all heat had
fallen from this one, and her life receded into the winds.

Vergil, Aeneid 4.362-449

She for a long time, averted, has watched him speaking,
turning her eyes from here and from there; she surveys all
with silent gaze, and speaks, thusly incensed:

“Neither the divine parent of your kind, nor the Dardanian founder,
O faithless one, begot you, but the Caucasus mount, bristling
with hard crags, and Hyrcanean tigresses brought their breasts to you.
For what do I conceal, or for what greater things do I reserve myself?
Has he lamented from out grief? Has he turned his gaze?
Has he, victorious, given tears or pitied me, loving?
What might I prefer to what? Now not greatest Juno
nor the Saturnian father looks at these things with equal eyes.
Nowhere is honour safe! I took you, destitute, thrown upon the shore,
and I, raving, found you in part of my kingdom.
I restored your lost fleet, I restored your men from death
(alas, I, incensed, am carried to madnesses!): now the augur Apollo,
now the Lycian lots, and now the messenger of the gods, sent
by Jove himself carries horrid decrees through the winds!
Doubtless, this hardship is from the gods; this command disturbs
order. Neither do I hold you, nor do I refute your words:
go, find Italy on the winds, seek kingdoms across the seas!
I hope, truly, if the pious gods are able to do such,
that you will drink in punishments in the midst of rocks
and often will call Dido by name. I, absent, will follow you with black fires
and, when frigid death separates your soul and limbs,
I will be a shade in all palces. You will give, wicked one, retributions.
I will hear, and this shade shall come to me, most deep below, with the news.”

She breaks off her address in the middle of these words, and, wretched,
flees the breezes, and bore herself away, and hid herself from sight,
leaving her husband with much sadness and preparing to say
many things. Female slaves catch her, and bear her collapsed limbs
to her marbled bedroom, and place her in bed.

But pious Aeneas, though he wishes to soothe her grieving
by comforting and to avert her worries with words,
lamenting many things and his heart shaken by love,
he nevertheless carries out the orders of the gods and returns to his fleet.
Then, truly, the Teucers exhort and lead the lofty ships
to the entire beachhead. The annointed prow sails,
and fronded bear the oaken oars, unhewn
of trees in eagerness of flight.

You might discern them moving and rushing from the entire city:
just as ants plunder great piles of spelt grain
when they are mindful of winter and pile it in a house;
a black battle line goes in the fields and they carry the spoil
through grasses along a narrow path: some push the heaped grains
with striving shoulders, some muster the battle line
and reprove delays; the path boils with the work of all.
Whom, then, has been sensed by you, Dido, discerning such things,
or what grief do you give, when you were seeing from your high citadel
that the wide shores were busy, and when you were seeing all the sea
be mixed with such clamour before your eyes!
Wicked Love, what mortal hearts do you not compel!
Again, she is compelled to go to tears, again to attempt by entreating
and, as a suppliant, to submit her feelings to love,
lest any untried thing leave her to die in vain.

“Anna, you see that there is hastening about the entire shore:
from all places they convene; not a sail calls the winds,
and the joyous sailors place garlands around their ships.
If I were able to expect such sorrow, and, sister,
to endure, I would go hence. But, Anna, carry out
this one work for me, for he, wicked, honours
you alone, and truly, he trusts in you his secret feelings;
you alone have known the suitable times of approach of the man.
Go, sister, and speak as a suppliant to the haughty foreigner.
When I have not sent the Danaans to kill the Trojan kind,
or ordered the fleet from Aulis to Pergamum,
nor have I violated the ashes or the spirit of the father Anchises,
why does he deny to accept my words in his stony ears?
For what does he ruin me? Let him give me, miserable, loving, this last gift:
let him expect easy flight and bearing winds.
No longer do I entreat ancient marriage rites, which he has broken,
nor let hem be without beautiful Latium or relinquish his kingdom.
I seek empty time, for rest and space from my furor,
as long as my fortune might teach me, conquered, to grieve.
I entreat this last favor (pity the sister),
which, when he has granted it to me, I will repay, heaped up, with my death.”

Her sister entreated such things, and, miserable, bears and
repeats such griefs. But he is moved by no
lamentations, nor does he, pliable, hear any words;
the fates obstruct and the god has buried his calm ears.
But just as when Alpine Boreads overturn a strong oak
with aged wood, now hence, now thence with gusts,
they compete among themselves; a roar comes forth and
tall fronds are laid low to the earth from the shaken trunk;
it itself clings to crags and as it holds towards the lofty skies
with its head, with its roots it holds so far towards Tartarus:
by no means otherwise is the hero assailed here and here
with unceasing words, and he feels grief in his great heart;
his mind unmoved remains, empty tears are turned.

Vergil, Aeneid 12.887-952

Aeneas urged opposite, and brandished his great
treelike spear, and spoke thus with savage heart:
“What now delays you? Or why now, Turnus, do you withdraw?
This is not for contesting by running, but hand-to-hand with savage arms!
Turn yourself into all appearances, and collect whatever you can,
whether by your character or by your skill. Choose to follow the
lofty stars with wings or bury yourself, shut in the cavernous lands.”

He, shaking his head, replied: “Your fiery words do not terrify
me, fierce one; the gods and hostile Jupiter terrify me.”
Nor having spoken more, he took sight of a great boulder,
a great ancient boulder, which by chance did lie upon the field,
placed as a boundary in the field that it might dissolve dispute of the field.
Scarcely could twelve chosen men have lifted it upon their shoulders,
such as the bodies of men now produced by the earth are;
he, angered, hurled the snatched boulder at the enemy with
agitated hand, rising high and with haste.
But he knew neither himself running nor going, or
raising or hurling the immense rock by hand;
his knees give way, his cold blood stiffens with chill.
Then the rock, itself having been thrown through empty void by force,
did not traverse the whole space, nor did it accomplish a blow.
And as in sleet, when weak rest has pressed eyes
by night, it seems that we want in vain to extend
the eager paths and we, sick, are adequate in the middle
of our attempts; the tongue is not strong, his known strengths
are not adequate for his body, nor do his voice or words follow:
thus the dire goddess denies success to Turnus, by which
he sought a way to virtue. Then various thoughts turn in his
breast; He looks upon the Rutulians and the city,
and he delays from fear, and he dreads to pursue death,
and he sees nor to where he might remove himself, nor with what force
he might strike his enemy, nor does he see his sister or the driver of his chariot.

Aeneas brandishes a fatal spear to him delaying,
found an opportunity with his eyes, and with his entire body
throws at a distance. Never thus do boulders thrown at a wall by
a catapult resound, nor do they burst apart with lightining
of such a sound. The spear flies, carrying awful destruction,
the image of a black whirlwind, and opens the mouth of the cuirass
and the great circle of the seven-layered shield;
hissing, it pierces Turnus’ middle thigh. Great Turnus falls to the
earth with doubled knee from the blow.
The Rutulians rise with a groan and the total mountain
resounds about and the deep groves widely return the voice.

He, on the ground as a suppliant, extending his eyes and right hand,
begging, says, “Truly, I plead I have not deserved this.
Take advantage of your lot. If any care of the miserable parent is able
to touch you, I beg that you pity the age of Daunus
(and your father Anchises was such to you),
and return me to my people, or, if you prefer, my body,
despoiled of life. You have conquered me, and, your victim, I entreat
that I might again see Ausonian lands; the Lavinia is your wife:
do not hold other hatreds.” Hard Aeneas stood
with his arms, turning his eues, and he stayed his hand;
and now, and now by the more, Turnus’ speech has begun to sway
him delaying, when the malfortuned baldric came to view
and his sword belt shone with known bullae
of the Pallantian boy, whom, defeated, Turnus killed
with a wound, and wore his noted thingy upon his shoulders.

After Aeneas saw with his eyes the spoils and reminders of
savage sadness, he was incensed to fury and was terrible
with rage: “Would you, wearing prizes of my friends,
snatch them from me? Pallas strikes you with this wound,
and takes retribution from your polluted blood!”
Speaking this, he, fiery, buries his sword beneath his adversary’s
chest, and his frigid limbs are loosed, and, with a groan,
he flees, unworthy, from life under the shades.

Vergil, Aeneid 10.420-509

Pallas thus assails him, having prior entreated:
“Give now, father Tiber, fortune to iron, the missile
which I hurl, and a way through the breast of harsh Halaesus.
Your oak will have these arms and spoils of the man.”
The god heard those things: while Halaesus protected Imaon,
his unlucky and unarmed breast have to the Arcadian spear.

But Lausus, a great part of the battle, does not permit the
battle lines such fears from the death of the man: first he killed
opposing Abas, both a hindrance and know of the battle.
Arcadian kinds are laid low; the Etruscans, and you
Teucers, O undestroyed bodies to the Greeks, are laid low.
The battle lines run together with equal leaders and men.
The battle lines of the end pack together, and nor does the throng
permit hands and weapons to be moved. Hence Pallas presses, and
urges, hence Lausus opposite, nor is their age greatly different,
both distinguished in form, but whom Fortune denies
returns to the fatherland. Yet the ruler of great Olympus has
not suffered them to fight among themselves;
presently their own deaths await them under a greater enemy.

Meanwhile the loving sister advises Turnus to approach
Lausus, who cuts the battle line with his swift chariot.
As he saw his men, [he said]: “It is the time to cease of battle;
I alone am borne to Pallantium, to me alone Pallas
is owed; I might wish his parent be present as spectator.”
These he affirmed, and his men withdrew from the plain by decree.
But the youth marveled then at the haughty orders, with the departure
of the Rutulians, gazed in awe at Turnus, and turned his gaze over
the great body and surveyed all from afar with wild sight,
and having spoken such things he goes against the words of the tyrant:
Either I now shall be praised for my rich spoils and conquests,
or for marked death: the father is equal to both our fates.
Bear your threats.” Having spoken, he proceeded to the mid field;

Turnus jumped down from his chariot, prepares his feet to go
at close quarters; as a lion, when it sees from a high place
that a bull stands far from the field practising for battle,
bears upon it, not otherwise is the image of Turnus coming.
When hence he believed himself to be near to thrown spear,
Pallas went before, if fortune might aid him having dared by any mean
against the unequal man, and thus spoke to the heavens:
“Through the hospitality and meals of the father, whom you, a stranger, have approached,
I entreat you, Hercules, if you were present for the great undertakings.
Let him see that I take cruel arms to him dying
and let them bear me, the victor, to the dying gaze of Turnus.”

Hercules heard the youth and pressed a great groan
deep under his heart and in vain let flow tears.
Then the father addressed his child with friendly words:
“To each his own day stands, and a brief and irretrievable time
of life is to all; but by these deeds fame grows;
this is a work of courage. Under the high walls of Troy
such children of the gods pass; Sarpedon, my progeny,
dies together; even his own fates call
Turnus, and he goes to the turning points of given life.”
Thus he affirms and averts his eyes from the lands of the Rutulians.
But Pallas sends forth a spear with great mights
and snatched away a refulgent sword from carved sheath.

It, flying, strikes what upper protections of the shoulder rise
and finally, in truth, [the spear] forced a road through the face
of the shield, and grazed [a bit] from the great body of Turnus.
Here Turnus, balancing for a long time an oak having been fixed
with sharp iron, threw this at Pallas and spoke thusly:
“Behold whether my spear might be piercing by the more.”
He had spoken; but spear point, with vibrating blow, had pierced
the middle of the shield, so many backs of iron, so many of bronze,
which so many times the hide of a bull surrounded, having been placed around,
and it punctures his great chest, slowed by the cuirass.
He seized in vain the hot spear from the wound:
together on that same road, his blood and mind follow.
He fell from the wound, his arms rang above,
and, dying, he found the hostile land with bloody mouth.

To whom Turnus, standing above, speaks:
“Mindful Arcadians,carry back these as my words
to Evander: he has merited such, I return Pallas.
Whatever honour of burial, whatever consolation is for burying,
I grant. For him Aenead hospitalities shall stand not
by little.” And he presses him lifeless with left foot, having spoken
such things, seizing the great weights of Pallas’ baldric,
and nefas had been pressed, together under [that] matrimonial night
the killed band of youths and fouly bloody marriage beds,
which Clonus of Eurytides engraved in much gold;
now Turnus exults and rejoices having gained such spoil.
The mind of men is ignorant of fate and of future lot
and of the manner to guard those stolen things with further works!
Time will be for great Turnus when he will have exulted for untouched
Pallas to have been bought, and when he will hate the day and
spoils themselves. But the greatly-numbered men bear Pallas
placed on a shield with a great groan and with tears.
O, sadness and great honour shall be returned to your father;
this first day has given you to war, borne you away itself,
when nevertheless you leave great treasures of the Rutulians!

Vergil, Aeneid 12.791-842

Meanwhile the omnipotent king of Olympus addresses
Juno, looking from her tawny cloud upon the battles:
“What end will there be now, wife? What, at end, remains?
You know know deified Aeneas, and you will admit that you yourself know
him to be owed the sky and to be raised to the heavens by fate.
What do you contrive? Or with what hope do you cling to your frigid clouds?
Has it been proper to not dishonour a mortal with a wound of the gods?
Or (truly, what would Juturna have been able to do without you?) that the
snatched sword be returned to Turnis, and power to grow for the victors?
Desist at last to change these things with your entreaties,
lest such sadness consume you and lest often sad
anxieties return to me from your two sweet lips.
It has come to the end. You have been able to drive the Trojans
by lands and waves, to incense unspeakable war,
to mar the house, and to mix wedding songs with grief:
I forbid you to try farther.” Thus Jupiter began.

Thus to this the goddess Juno spoke with face downturned:
“Indeed, since this is known to be your will, great
Jupiter, I, unwilling, have abandoned both Turnus and his lands;
lest you were to now see me alone in my lofty seat,
I have endured indignations with dignity, but would that I might stand girdled
by flames at that battle line, and that I might drag the Teucrians into hated battles.
I pity Juturna: I have urged her to help her brother
and I have recommended that she dare for his greater life,
yet not that he might hurl spears or shoot a bow;
I swear by the implacable head of the Stygian spring,
the one superstition which has been brought to the heavenly gods.
And now indeed I yield, and I, hateful of this, relinquish battles.
That is held by you, which by no law of fate [is denied],
for the Latin [people], for their greatness, I beseech you:
when at last with happy marriages they construct a peace
(for let it be thus), when at last they enjoin pacts and laws,
lest you decree the indigent Latins change their ancient name,
or that they are made Trojans and be called Teucers,
or that the people change their tongue or alter their garb.
Let Latium be, let the Albans be rulers through ages,
let the Roman offspring be powerful with Italian strength:
It has fallen; permit it to have fallen with Trojan name.”

Smiling at her, the creator of men and the works responds:
“You are the sister of Jupiter and the other child of Saturn:
you turn such a flood of angers in your heart.
But lead, and lower your anger taken up in vain:
I grant what you wish, and I, conquered and willing, yield myself.
The Ausonians will hold the tongue and mores of their fatherland,
and as it is their name shall be; the Teucers, united such in respect to body,
shall give way. I shall add law and rites of the holy
and I shall make all Latins with one face.
Hence the kind from Ausonian blood so mixed will rise;
you will see that they go above men, above gods in respect to piety,
nor will any kind equally celebrate your honours.”

Juno gives assent to this and, overjoyed, turns back her mind;
meanwhile she withdraws from the sky and leaves her cloud.