And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!
Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,
And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,
His son Ascanius, and served his mangled limbs
To grace his father’s feast?—Such conflict might have had
A doubtful issue.—Grant it might, but whom had I,
Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,
His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,
And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom
Of all.—O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see