But she found Her words were vain: Latinus had decided, She saw she could not move him. And the poison By now had taken hold, a wild excitement Coursing the veins; her bones were turned to water; Poor queen, there was no limit to her raging, Streeling, one end of the city to another. You know how schoolboys, when a top is spinning, Snap at it with a whiplash, in a circle Around an empty court, and keep it going, Wondering at the way it keeps on whirling, Driven by blows in this or that direction, So, through the midst of cities and proud people, Amata drives, is driven. Madness and guilt upon her, She flies to the mountains, tries to hide her daughter Deep in the woods, acts like a drunken woman, Cries, over and over, “This girl is meant for Bacchus, And not for any Trojans, only Bacchus Is worthy of her; she honors him in dancing, Carries his wand, and keeps for him the sacred Lock of her hair!” And Rumor, flying over, Excites the other wives to leave their houses. They come with maddened hearts, with their hair flying, Their necks bare to the winds; they shriek to the skies, Brandish the vine-bound spears, are dressed as tigers, Circle and wheel around their queen, whose frenzy Tosses the burning pine-brand high, in gesture To suit the marriage-hymn: “O Latin mothers, Listen, wherever you are: if any care For poor Amata moves you, or any sense Of any mother’s rights, come join the revels, Loosen the hair, exult!” Allecto drives her To the dens of the beasts; her eyes are stained and bloodshot, Rolled upward to the white.