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Or what will kin and country say,
If—ward the omen, heaven, I pray!—
I leave him now his life to lose
While for my daughter's hand he sues?
O think of war, its change and chance,
How luck may warp the surest lance!
Think of your father old and grey,
Forlornly hiding leagues away!'
But Turnus' wrath no words can tame:
What seemed to slake but feeds the flame
Soon as impatience found a tongue
With fury into speech he flung:
'Those anxious bodings, father mine,
For me you keep, for me resign:
Leave me to meet the invader's claim:
Let death redeem the gage of fame.
I too no feeble dart can throw,
And flesh will bleed that feels my blow.
No goddess mother will be there
To tend him with a woman's care,
Conceal in mist his recreant flight,
And palter with a brave man's sight.'

But the sad queen, struck wild by fears
Of battle's new award,
Death swimming in her view, with tears
Holds fast her daughter's lord:
'Turnus, by these fond tears I pour,
If still survives the love you bore
To Latium's hapless queen—
On you our tottering age is staid;
On you a nation's hopes are laid;
A house, dismantled and decayed,
On you is fain to lean—
One boon I crave, but one: forbear
The arbitrament of fight to dare: