Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.
Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?
I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.505
But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,
And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.
For see what feeble forces now are left:
A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.
We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.
Then come, make bold to enter the abode,
The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.