Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed!
Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled—
Præscious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate assigned.
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone:
My Pallas late set out, but reached too soon.
If, for my league against the Ausonian state,
Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deserved from them,) then I had been returned
A breathless victor, and my son had mourned.