taunts revile!
Nay, Drances, be at ease; this hand disdains
To take the forfeit of a soul so vile.
Keep it, fit inmate of that breast of guile,
And now, good Sire, if, beaten, we despair,
If never Fate on Latin arms shall smile,
And naught our ruined fortunes can repair,
Stretch we our craven hands, and beg the foe to spare.

LIV. "Yet oh! if aught of ancient worth remain,
Him deem I noblest, and his end renowned,
Brave soul! who sooner than behold such stain,
Fell once for all, and, dying, bit the ground.
But, if fit men and martial means abound,
And towns and tribes, to muster at our call,
Hath Italy; if Trojans, too, have found
Fame dearly bought with many a brave man's fall
(For they have, too, their deaths; the storm hath swept o'er all),

LV. "Why fail we on the threshold, faint with fears,
And sick knees tremble ere the trumpets bray?
Time--healing Time--and long, laborious years
Oft raise the humble; Fortune in her play
Lifts those to-morrow, whom she lowers to-day.
What though no aid AEtolian Arpi lends,
Ours is Messapus, ours Tolumnius, yea,
And all whom Latium or Laurentum sends,
Nor scanty fame, nor slow Italia's hosts attends.

LVI. "Ours, too, is brave Camilla, noble maid,
The pride of Volscians, and she leads a band
Of horsemen fierce, in brazen arms arrayed.
If me the foe to single fight demand,
And so ye will, and I alone withstand
The common good, come danger as it may,
Not so hath victory fled this hated hand,
Not yet so weak is Turnus, as to stay
With such a prize unsnatched, and falter from the fray.

LVII. "Though greater than the great Achilles he,
Though, like Achilles, Vulcan's arms he wear,
Fain will I meet him. Lo, to you, to thee,
Latinus, father of the bride so fair,
I, Turnus, I, in prowess past compare,
Devote this life. AEneas calls but me,
So let him, rather than that Drances bear
The smart, if death the wrathful gods decree,
Or, if 'tis glory's field, usurp the victor's fee."

LVIII. While thus, with wrangling and contentious doubt,
They urged debate, AEneas his array
Moved from the camp. Behold, a trusty scout
Back, through Latinus' palace, speeds his way,
And fills the town with tumult and dismay.
The Trojans--see!--the Trojans,--down they swarm
From Tiber. See the meadows far away
Alive with foes! Rage,