Still unresolved, and still a slave to fate? If Turnus' death a lasting peace can give, Why should I not procure it whilst you live? Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray, What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say? And, should you fall in fight, (which heaven defend!) } How curse the cause, which hastened to his end } The daughter's lover, and the father's friend? } Weigh in your mind the various chance of war; Pity your parent's age, and ease his care." Such balmy words he poured, but all in vain: The proffered medicine but provoked the pain. The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:-- "The care, O best of fathers! which you take For my concerns, at my desire forsake. Permit me not to languish out my days, But make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize; And the blood follows, where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near, to shrowd The flying coward with an empty cloud." But now the queen, who feared for Turnus' life, And loathed the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:-- "O Turnus! I adjure thee by these tears, And whate'er price Amata's honour bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind's repose, my sinking age's prop-- Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne-- Refuse me not this one, this only prayer, To wave the combat, and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata's life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne Usurped by strangers, or a Trojan son." At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; } A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, } Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.[13] } The driving colours, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change! thus Indian ivory shows, } Which with the bordering paint of purple glows; } Or lilies damasked by the neighbouring rose. } The lover gazed, and, burning with desire, The more he looked, the more he fed the fire: Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite, Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:-- "O mother! do not by your tears prepare Such boding omens, and prejudge the war. Resolved on fight, I am no longer free To shun my death, if heaven my death decree."-- Then turning to the herald, thus pursues: "Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news; Denounce from me, that, when to-morrow's light Shall gild the heavens, he need not urge the fight;