P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid
Theodore C. Williams, Ed.

But now the Queen, whose whole heart shrank in fear
from these new terms of duel, wept aloud,
and like one dying clasped her fiery son:
“O Turnus, by these tears-if in thy heart
thou honorest Amata still—O thou
who art of our distressful, dark old age
the only hope and peace, the kingly name
and glory of Latinus rests in thee;
thou art the mighty prop whereon is stayed
our falling house. One favor I implore:
give o'er this fight with Trojans. In such strife
thy destined doom is destined to be mine
by the same fatal stroke. For in that hour
this hated life shall cease, nor will I look
with slave's eyes on Aeneas as my son.”
Lavinia heard her mother's voice, and tears
o'erflowed her scarlet cheek, where blushes spread
like flame along her warm, young face and brow:
as when the Indian ivory must wear
ensanguined crimson stain, or lilies pale
mingled with roses seem to blush, such hues
her virgin features bore; and love's desire
disturbed his breast, as, gazing on the maid,
his martial passion fiercer flamed; whereon
in brief speech he addressed the Queen: “No tears!
No evil omen, mother, I implore!
Make me no sad farewells, as I depart
to the grim war-god's game! Can Turnus' hand
delay death's necessary coming? Go,
Idmon, my herald, to the Phrygian King,
and tell him this—a word not framed to please:
soon as Aurora from her crimson car
flushes to-morrow's sky, let him no more
against the Rutule lead the Teucrian line;
let Teucrian swords and Rutule take repose,
while with our own spilt blood we twain will make
an end of war; on yonder mortal field
let each man woo Lavinia for his bride.”