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Venus, the while, disturbed with grief and care, to Neptune thus her sorrowing heart outpoured: “Stern Juno's wrath and breast implacable compel me, Neptune, to abase my pride in lowly supplication. Lapse of days, nor prayers, nor virtues her hard heart subdue, nor Jove's command; nor will she rest or yield at Fate's decree. Her execrable grudge is still unfed, although she did consume the Trojan city, Phrygia's midmost throne, and though she has accomplished stroke on stroke of retribution. But she now pursues the remnant—aye! the ashes and bare bones of perished Ilium; though the cause and spring of wrath so great none but herself can tell. Wert thou not witness on the Libyan wave what storm she stirred, immingling sea and sky, and with Aeolian whirlwinds made her war, — in vain and insolent invasion, sire, of thine own realm and power? Behold, but now, goading to evil deeds the Trojan dames, she basely burned his ships; he in strange lands must leave the crews of his Iost fleet beh<
Thereat he bound his forehead with green garland, calling loud upon the Genius of that place, and Earth, eldest of names divine; the Nymphs he called, and river-gods unknown; his voice invoked the night, the omen-stars through night that roll. Jove, Ida's child, and Phrygia's fertile Queen: he called his mother from Olympian skies, and sire from Erebus. Lo, o'er his head three times unclouded Jove omnipotent in thunder spoke, and, with effulgent ray from his ethereal tract outreaching far, shook visibly the golden-gleaming air. Swift, through the concourse of the Trojans, spread news of the day at hand when they should build their destined walls. So, with rejoicing heart at such vast omen, they set forth a feast with zealous emulation, ranging well the wine-cups fair with many a garland crowned.
Meanwhile, with two white coursers to their car, the brothers Lucagus and Liger drove into the heart of battle: Liger kept with skilful hand the manage of the steeds; bold Lucagus swung wide his naked sword. Aeneas, by their wrathful brows defied, brooked not the sight, but to the onset flew, huge-looming, with adverse and threatening spear. Cried Liger, “Not Achilles' chariot, ours! Nor team of Diomed on Phrygia's plain! The last of life and strife shall be thy meed upon this very ground.” Such raving word flowed loud from Liger's lip: not with a word the Trojan hero answered him, but flung his whirling spear; and even as Lucagus leaned o'er the horses, goading them with steel, and, left foot forward, gathered all his strength to strike—the spear crashed through the under rim of his resplendent shield and entered deep in the left groin; then from the chariot fallen, the youth rolled dying on the field, while thus pious Aeneas paid him taunting words: “O Lucagus, thy chariot did not