When Venulus began, the murmuring sound Was hush’d, and sacred silence reign’d around. “We have,” said he, “perform’d your high command, And pass’d with peril a long tract of land: We reach’d the place desir’d; with wonder fill’d, The Grecian tents and rising tow’rs beheld. Great Diomede has compass’d round with walls The city, which Argyripa he calls, From his own Argos nam’d. We touch’d, with joy, The royal hand that raz’d unhappy Troy. When introduc’d, our presents first we bring, Then crave an instant audience from the king. His leave obtain’d, our native soil we name, And tell th’ important cause for which we came. Attentively he heard us, while we spoke; Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look, Made this return: ‘Ausonian race, of old Renown’d for peace, and for an age of gold, What madness has your alter’d minds possess’d, To change for war hereditary rest, Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword, A needless ill your ancestors abhorr’d? We—for myself I speak, and all the name Of Grecians, who to Troy’s destruction came, (Omitting those who were in battle slain, Or borne by rolling Simois to the main) Not one but suffer’d, and too dearly bought The prize of honour which in arms he sought; Some doom’d to death, and some in exile driv’n. Outcasts, abandon’d by the care of Heav’n; So worn, so wretched, so despis’d a crew, As ev’n old Priam might with pity view. Witness the vessels by Minerva toss’d In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast; Th’ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led Our armies to revenge his injur’d bed, In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclops’ den. Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain Restor’d to scepters, and expell’d again? Or young Achilles, by his rival slain? Ev’n he, the King of Men, the foremost name Of all the Greeks, and most renown’d by fame, The proud revenger of another’s wife, Yet by his own adult’ress lost his life; Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy The foul polluters of his bed enjoy. The gods have envied me the sweets of life, My much lov’d country, and my more lov’d wife: Banish’d from both, I mourn; while in the sky, Transform’d to birds, my lost companions fly: Hov’ring about the coasts, they make their moan, And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own. What squalid spectres, in the dead of night, Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight! I might have promis’d to myself those harms, Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms, Presum’d against immortal pow’rs to move, And violate with wounds the Queen of Love. Such arms this hand shall never more employ;