Of passion at the bosom’s inmost seat.
She dreads the treacherous house, the double tongue;
She burns, she frets—by Juno’s rancour stung;
The calm of night is powerless to remove
These cares, and thus she speaks to wingèd Love: 10
“O son, my strength, my power! who dost despise
(What, save thyself, none dares through earth and skies)
The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee,
O son, a suppliant to thy deity!
What perils meet Æneas in his course, 15