Whether thy wife, Creüsa, still survives;
Bethink thee of Ascanius thy son.
For they are hemmed about on every side
By hostile Greeks; but for my shielding care,
Already would the flames have swept them off,
And swords of enemies have drunk their blood.
‘Tis not the beauty of the Spartan queen
That should arouse thy hate, nor shouldst thou blame
Thy kinsman, Paris; for the cruel gods,
The gods, I say, have laid thy city low,