“Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strife What can thy sister more to save thy life? Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend In arms with that inexorable fiend? Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night; The lashing of your wings I know too well, The sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell! These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove, The worthy recompense of ravish’d love! Did he for this exempt my life from fate? O hard conditions of immortal state, Tho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die, But forc’d to bear impos’d eternity! Take back your envious bribes, and let me go Companion to my brother’s ghost below! The joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains, Of life immortal, but immortal pains. What earth will open her devouring womb, To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!” She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said, But in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head, Then plung’d into her stream, with deep despair, And her last sobs came bubbling up in air. Now stern Aeneas waves his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear: “What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harbour’d in his mind? ’Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight; Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war; Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!” The champion shook his head, and made this short reply: “No threats of thine my manly mind can move; ’Tis hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.” He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’d The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.