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M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge) 2 0 Browse Search
C. Suetonius Tranquillus, The Lives of the Caesars (ed. Alexander Thomson) 2 0 Browse Search
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, for his house, Plancius, Sextius, Coelius, Milo, Ligarius, etc. (ed. C. D. Yonge) 2 0 Browse Search
Appian, The Civil Wars (ed. Horace White) 2 0 Browse Search
E. T. Merrill, Commentary on Catullus (ed. E. T. Merrill) 2 0 Browse Search
E. T. Merrill, Commentary on Catullus (ed. E. T. Merrill) 2 0 Browse Search
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, for his house, Plancius, Sextius, Coelius, Milo, Ligarius, etc. (ed. C. D. Yonge) 2 0 Browse Search
Richard Hakluyt, The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques, and Discoveries of the English Nation 2 0 Browse Search
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), The Art of Poetry: To the Pisos (ed. C. Smart, Theodore Alois Buckley) 2 0 Browse Search
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, for Quintius, Sextus Roscius, Quintus Roscius, against Quintus Caecilius, and against Verres (ed. C. D. Yonge) 2 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams). You can also browse the collection for Tiber (Italy) or search for Tiber (Italy) in all documents.

Your search returned 27 results in 27 document sections:

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P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 10, line 198 (search)
Next Ocnus summoned forth a war-host from his native shores, the son of Tiber, Tuscan river, and the nymph Manto, a prophetess: he gave good walls, O Mantua, and his mother's name, to thee,— to Mantua so rich in noble sires, but of a blood diverse, a triple breed, four stems in each; and over all enthroned she rules her tribes: her strength is Tuscan born. Hate of Mezentius armed against his name five hundred men: upon their hostile prow was Mincius in a cloak of silvery sedge,— Lake Benacus the river's source and sire. Last good Aulestes smites the depths below, with forest of a hundred oars: the flood like flowing marble foams; his Triton prow threatens the blue waves with a trumpet-shell; far as the hairy flanks its form is man, but ends in fish below—the parting waves beneath the half-brute bosom break in foam. Such chosen chiefs in thirty galleys ploughed the salt-wave, bringing help to Trojan
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 10, line 689 (search)
lling helpless; he bestowed the arms on his son Lausus for a prize, another proud crest in his helm to wear; he laid the Phrygian Euanthus Iow; and Mimas, Paris' comrade, just his age,— born of Theano's womb to Amycus his sire, that night when royal Hecuba, teeming with firebrand, gave Paris birth: one in the city of his fathers sleeps; and one, inglorious, on Laurentian strand. As when a wild boar, harried from the hills by teeth of dogs (one who for many a year was safe in pine-clad Vesulus, or roamed the meres of Tiber, feeding in the reeds) falls in the toils at last, and stands at bay, raging and bristling, and no hunter dares defy him or come near, but darts are hurled from far away, with cries unperilous: not otherwise, though righteous is their wrath against Mezentius, not a man so bold as face him with drawn sword, but at long range they throw their shafts and with loud cries assail; he, all unterrified, makes frequent stand, gnashing his teeth, and shaking off their spears
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 10, line 833 (search)
Meanwhile Mezentius by the Tiber's wave with water staunched his wound, and propped his weight against a tree; upon its limbs above his brazen helmet hung, and on the sward his ponderous arms lay resting. Round him watched his chosen braves. He, gasping and in pain, clutched at his neck and let his flowing beard loose on his bosom fall; he questions oft of Lausus, and sends many a messenger to bid him back, and bear him the command of his sore-grieving sire. But lo! his peers bore the dead Lausus back upon his shield, and wept to see so strong a hero quelled by stroke so strong. From long way off the sire, with soul prophetic of its woe, perceived what meant their wail and cry. On his gray hairs the dust he flung, and, stretching both his hands to heaven, he cast himself the corpse along. “O son,” he cried, “was life to me so sweet, that I to save myself surrendered o'er my own begotten to a foeman's steel? Saved by these gashes shall thy father be, and living by thy death? O wretched<
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 11, line 302 (search)
llen, clutch the sword. If hope ye cherished of Aetolia's power, dismiss it! For what hope ye have is found in your own bosoms only. But ye know how slight it is and small. What ruin wide has fallen, is now palpable and clear. No blame I cast. What valor's uttermost may do was done; our kingdom in this war strained its last thews. Now therefore I will tell such project as my doubtful mind may frame, and briefly, if ye give good heed, unfold: an ancient tract have I, close-bordering the river Tiber; it runs westward far beyond Sicania's bound, and filth it bears to Rutule and Auruncan husbandmen, who furrow its hard hills or feed their flocks along the stonier slopes. Let this demesne, together with its pine-clad mountain tall, be given the Teucrian for our pledge of peace, confirmed by free and equitable league, and full alliance with our kingly power. Let them abide there, if it please them so, and build their city's wall. But if their hearts for other land or people yearn, and fate
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 11, line 376 (search)
n talk, such as thy tongue in safety tosses forth; so long as walls hold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flow with blood of brave men slain. O, rattle on in fluent thunder—thy habitual style! Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy sword has heaped up Trojan slain, and on the field thy shining trophies rise. Now may we twain our martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth, is not so far to seek; around yon wall he lies in siege: to front him let us fly! Why art thou tarrying? Wilt thou linger here, a soldier only in thy windy tongue, and thy swift, coward heels? Defeated, I? Foul wretch, what tongue that honors truth can tell of my defeat, while Tiber overflows with Trojan blood? while King Evander's house in ruin dies, and his Arcadians lie stripped naked on the field? O, not like thee did Bitias or the giant Pandarus misprize my honor; nor those men of Troy whom this good sword to death and dark sent down, a thousand in a day,—though I was penned a prisoner in the ramparts of my f
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 11, line 445 (search)
Thus in their doubtful cause the chieftains strove. Meanwhile Aeneas his assaulting line moved forward. The ill tidings wildly sped from royal hall to hall, and filled the town with rumors dark: for now the Trojan host o'er the wide plains from Tiber's wave was spread in close array of war. The people's soul was vexed and shaken, and its martial rage rose to the stern compulsion. Now for arms their terror calls; the youthful soldiery clamor for arms; the sires of riper days weep or repress their tears. On every side loud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaim trouble the air, as when in lofty grove legions of birds alight, or by the flood of Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swans far o'er the vocal marish fling their song. Then, seizing the swift moment, Turnus cried: “Once more, my countrymen,—ye sit in parle, lazily praising peace, while yonder foe speeds forth in arms our kingdom to obtain.” He spoke no more, but hied him in hot haste, and from the housetop called, “Volusus, go! E
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams), Book 12, line 18 (search)
d to nonesoe'er of all her earlier wooers—so declared the gods and oracles; but overcome by love of thee, by thy dear, kindred blood, and by the sad eyes of my mournful Queen, I shattered every bond; I snatched away the plighted maiden from her destined lord, and took up impious arms. What evil case upon that deed ensued, what hapless wars, thou knowest, since thyself dost chiefly bear the cruel burden. In wide-ranging fight twice-conquered, our own city scarce upholds the hope of Italy. Yon Tiber's wave still runs warm with my people's blood; the plains far round us glisten with their bleaching bones. Why tell it o'er and o'er? What maddening dream perverts my mind? If after Turnus slain I must for friendship of the Trojan sue, were it not better to suspend the fray while Turnus lives? For what will be the word of thy Rutulian kindred—yea, of all Italia, if to death I give thee o'er— (Which Heaven avert!) because thou fain wouldst win my daughter and be sworn my friend and son? Bethi<
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