with the royal crown and sceptre, and given to
my hands the ensigns of power, bidding me join the camp,
and assume the Tyrrhene throne. But age, with its enfeebling
chill and the exhaustion of its long term of years,
grudges me the honour of command; my day of martial 5
prowess is past. Fain would I encourage my son to the
task, but that the blood of a Sabine mother blending with
mine makes his race half Italian. You, in years and in
race alike the object of Fate’s indulgence—you, the
chosen one of Heaven—assume the place that waits 10