Then quiet; Æneas once more began:
“Speak not of risks endurable by man;
None daunt me; long since I foresaw the whole,
Rehearsed what worst could happen in my soul.
I fear no ordeal; if Hell’s gate be here,
As they say, and it front the darksome mere—
Acheron’s wash—I crave it of thy grace,
Holy One, to meet my sire face to face.
Never had I been parted from his side
Till in an evil hour for me he died.