Oh, get thee hence,
Thou son of Venus, flee these deadly flames.
Our foemen hold the walls; our ancient Troy
Is fallen from her lofty pinnacle
Enough for king and country has been done;
If Troy could have been saved by any hand,
This hand of mine would have defended her.
But now to thee she trusts her sacred gods
And all their sacred rites; take these with thee
As comrades of thy fates; seek walls for these,