But the queen, pierced long since by love’s cruel shaft,
is feeding the wound with her life-blood, and wasting under
a hidden fire. Many times the hero’s own worth comes
back to her mind, many times the glory of his race; his
every look remains imprinted on her breast, and his every 5
word, nor will trouble let soothing sleep have access to
her frame.
The dawn-goddess[169] of the morrow was surveying the
earth with Phœbus’ torch in her hand, and had already
withdrawn the dewy shadow from the sky, when she, 10