spake, and 'neath the narrow roof AEneas' body great
He led withal, and set him down; and such a bed was there
As 'twas of leaves, and overlaid with skin of Libyan bear.

Night falleth, and its dusky wings spreads o'er the face of earth,
When Venus, fearful in her soul (nor less than fear 'twas worth), 370
Sore troubled by Laurentine threats and all the tumult dread,
Bespeaketh Vulcan, as she lay upon his golden bed,
And holiness of very love amidst her words she bore:

"When Argive kings were wasting Troy predestined with their war,
Were wracking towers foredoomed to fall mid flames of hating men,
No help of thine for hapless ones, no arms I asked for then,
Wrought by thy craft and mastery: nor would I have thee spend
Thy labour, O beloved spouse, to win no happy end;
Though many things to Priam's house meseemeth did I owe,
And oftentimes I needs must weep AEneas' pain and woe. 380
But now that he by Jove's command Rutulian shores hath won,
I am thy suppliant, asking arms, a mother for her son,
Praying thy godhead's holiness: time was when Nereus' seed,
Tithonus' wife, with many tears could bend thee to thy need.
Look round, what peoples gather now; what cities shut within
Their barred gates are whetting sword to slay me and my kin."

She spake: with snowy arms of God she fondled him about,
And wound him in her soft embrace, while yet he hung in doubt:
Sudden the wonted fire struck home; unto his inmost drew
The old familiar heat, and all his melting bones ran through: 390
No otherwise than whiles it is when rolls the thunder loud,
And gleaming of the fiery rent breaks up the world of cloud.
In glory of her loveliness she felt her guile had gained.
Then spake the Father, overcome by Love that ne'er hath waned:

"Why fish thy reasons from the deep? where is thy trust in me,
I prithee, O my God and Love? Had such wish weighed on thee,
Then, also, had it been my part to arm the Teucrian hand,
Nor had the Almighty Sire nor Fate forbidden Troy to stand,
And Priam might have held it out another ten years yet.
And now if thou wouldst wage the war, if thus thy soul is set, 400
Thy longing shall have whatsoe'er this craft of mine may lend;
Whatever in iron may be done, or silver-golden blend;
Whatever wind and fire may do: I prithee pray no more,