_Ven._ I, this is it: you can sit toying there, 50 And playing with that female wanton boy, Whiles my Æneas wanders on the seas, And rests a prey to every billow's pride. Juno, false Juno, in her chariot's pomp, Drawn through the heavens by steeds of Boreas' brood, Made Hebe to direct her airy wheels; Into the windy country of the clouds; Where, finding Æolus entrenched with storms, And guarded with a thousand grisly ghosts, She humbly did beseech him for our bane, 60 And charged him drown my son with all his train. Then gan the winds break ope their brazen doors, And all Æolia to be up in arms; Poor Troy must now be sacked upon the sea, And Neptune's waves be envious men of war; Epeus' horse, to Ætna's hill transform'd, Preparèd stands to wreck their wooden walls; And Æolus, like Agamemnon, sounds The surges, his fierce soldiers, to the spoil: See how the night, Ulysses-like, comes forth, 70 And intercepts the day, as Dolon erst! Ay me! the stars supprised,[436] like Rhesus' steeds, Are drawn by darkness forth Astræus' tents.[437] What shall I do to save thee, my sweet boy? Whenas the waves do threat our crystal world, And Proteus, raising hills of floods on high, Intends, ere long, to sport him in the sky.[438] False Jupiter, reward'st thou virtue so? What, is not piety exempt from woe? Then die, Æneas, in thine innocence, 80 Since that religion hath no recompense. _Jup._ Content thee, Cytherea, in thy care, Since thy Æneas' wandering fate is firm,[439] Whose weary limbs shall shortly make repose In those fair walls I promised him of yore. But, first, in blood must his good fortune bud, Before he be the lord of Turnus' town, Or force her smile that hitherto hath frowned: Three winters shall he with the Rutiles war, And, in the end, subdue them with his sword; 90 And full three summers likewise shall he waste In managing those fierce barbarian minds; Which once performed, poor Troy, so long suppressed, From forth her ashes shall advance her head, And flourish once again, that erst was dead. But bright Ascanius, beauty's better work, Who with the sun divides one radiant shape, Shall build his throne amidst those starry towers That earth-born Atlas, groaning, underprops: No bounds, but heaven, shall bound his empery, 100 Whose azured gates, enchasèd with his name, Shall make the Morning haste her grey uprise, To feed her eyes with his engraven fame. Thus, in stout Hector's race, three hundred years[440] The Roman sceptre royal shall remain, Till that a princess-priest,[441] conceived by Mars, Shall yield to dignity a double birth, Who will eternish[442] Troy in their attempts.