the hopes of Italy: Tiber’s waters are yet steaming 10
with our blood, and the spacious plains are whitened by
our bones. Whither am I drifting again and again?
what madness turns my brain? If on the death of Turnus
I am ready to welcome these new allies, why should I not
end the strife while he lives and is safe? What will our 15
Rutulian kinsmen say, what the rest of Italy, if—may
Fortune forefend the omen!—I give you up to death,
you, a suitor for my alliance, for my daughter’s hand?
Think of the uncertainties of war; have pity on your aged