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

Such loud lament
burst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.
Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,
having made ready all, and fixed his mind
to launch away upon brief slumher fell.
But the god came; and in the self-same guise
once more in monitory vision spoke,
all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,
his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.
“Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleep
at such an hour? Nor seest thou the snares
that hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voice
of friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!
That woman's breast contrives some treachery
and horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,
she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn.
Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hour
of flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt see
yon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glare
of fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,
if but the light of morn again surprise
thee loitering in this land. Away! Away!
Stay not! A mutable and shifting thing
is woman ever.” Such command he spoke,
then melted in the midnight dark away.