No spot of earth, no hospitable land, Which may my wand’ring fugitives receive; (Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;) Then, father, (if I still may use that name,) By ruin’d Troy, yet smoking from the flame, I beg you, let Ascanius, by my care, Be freed from danger, and dismiss’d the war: Inglorious let him live, without a crown. The father may be cast on coasts unknown, Struggling with fate; but let me save the son. Mine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian tow’rs: In those recesses, and those sacred bow’rs, Obscurely let him rest; his right resign To promis’d empire, and his Julian line. Then Carthage may th’ Ausonian towns destroy, Nor fear the race of a rejected boy. What profits it my son to scape the fire, Arm’d with his gods, and loaded with his sire; To pass the perils of the seas and wind; Evade the Greeks, and leave the war behind; To reach th’ Italian shores; if, after all, Our second Pergamus is doom’d to fall? Much better had he curb’d his high desires, And hover’d o’er his ill-extinguish’d fires. To Simois’ banks the fugitives restore, And give them back to war, and all the woes before.” Deep indignation swell’d Saturnia’s heart: “And must I own,” she said, “my secret smart— What with more decence were in silence kept, And, but for this unjust reproach, had slept? Did god or man your fav’rite son advise, With war unhop’d the Latians to surprise? By fate, you boast, and by the gods’ decree, He left his native land for Italy! Confess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more Than Heav’n inspir’d, he sought a foreign shore! Did I persuade to trust his second Troy To the raw conduct of a beardless boy, With walls unfinish’d, which himself forsakes, And thro’ the waves a wand’ring voyage takes? When have I urg’d him meanly to demand The Tuscan aid, and arm a quiet land? Did I or Iris give this mad advice, Or made the fool himself the fatal choice? You think it hard, the Latians should destroy With swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy! Hard and unjust indeed, for men to draw Their native air, nor take a foreign law! That Turnus is permitted still to live, To whom his birth a god and goddess give! But yet is just and lawful for your line To drive their fields, and force with fraud to join; Realms, not your own, among your clans divide, And from the bridegroom tear the promis’d bride; Petition, while you public arms prepare; Pretend a peace, and yet provoke a war! ’Twas giv’n to you, your darling son to shroud, To draw the dastard from the fighting crowd, And, for a man, obtend an empty cloud. From flaming fleets you turn’d the fire away,