Theirs is no more than that small spot of ground,
Which myriads of our martial men surround.
Their feats I fear not, or vain oracles.
'Twas given to Venus they should cross the seas,
And land secure upon the Latian plains:
Their promised hour is passed, and mine remains.
'Tis in the fate of Turnus, to destroy,
With sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy.
Shall such affronts as these, alone, inflame
The Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name?