XLVII. At her the goddess from her dark locks threw A snake, and lodged the monster in her breast, To make her fury all the house undo. In glides, impalpable, the maddening pest Between the dainty bosom and the vest, Breathing its venom. Like a necklace thin It hung, all golden, like a wreath, caressed Her temples, like a ribbon, wove within Her hair its slippery coils, and wandered o'er her skin. XLVIII. So, while the taint, first stealing through her frame, Slipped in, with slimy venom, and the pest Thrilled every sense, and wrapped her bones in flame, Nor yet her soul had caught it, or confessed The fiery fever that consumed her breast; Soft, like a mother, and with tears, she cried, Grieved for her child, and pondering with unrest The Phrygian match, "Ah, woe the day betide, If Teucrian exiles win Lavinia for a bride! XLIX. "Hast thou no pity for thy child, nor thee, O father! nor her mother, left forlorn, When, with the rising North-wind, o'er the sea Yon faithless pirate hath the maiden borne? Not so, forsooth, did Lacedaemon mourn Robbed Helen, when the Phrygian shepherd planned Her capture. Is thy sacred faith forsworn? Where is thy old affection? Where that hand So oft to Turnus pledged, thy kinsman of the land? L. "If Latins for Lavinia needs must find A foreign mate; if so the Fates constrain, And Faunus' words weigh heavy on thy mind, All lands, that yield not to the Latin reign, I count as foreign; so the Gods speak plain; And foreign then is Turnus, if we trace The first beginning of his princely strain. Greeks were his grandsires; Argos was the place Where old Acrisius ruled, where dwelt th' Inachian race." LI. So pleading, and so weeping, she essayed To move the king; but when her prayers were vain, Nor tears Latinus from his purpose stayed, And now the viper with its deadly bane Crept to her inmost parts, and through each vein The maddening poison to her heartstrings stole, Then, scared by monstrous phantoms of the brain, Poor queen! she raved, and maddening past control, Ran through the crowded streets in impotence of soul. LII. Like as a whip-top by the lash is sent In widening orbs to spin, when lads among The empty courtyards urge their merriment; And, scourged in circling courses by the thong It wheels and eddies, while the beardless throng Bend over, lost in ignorant surprise, And marvel, as the boxwood whirls along, Stirred by each stroke; so fast Amata flies From street to street, while crowds look on with lowering eyes.