P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid
Theodore C. Williams, Ed.

When Turnus marks how much the Latins quail
in adverse war, how on himself they call
to keep his pledge, and with indignant eyes
gaze all his way, fierce rage implacable
swells his high heart. As when on Libyan plain
a lion, gashed along his tawny breast
by the huntsman's grievous thrust, awakens him
unto his last grim fight, and gloriously
shaking the great thews of his maned neck,
shrinks not, but crushes the despoiler's spear
with blood-sprent, roaring mouth,—not less than so
burns the wild soul of Turnus and his ire.
Thus to the King he spoke with stormful brow:
“The war lags not for Turnus' sake. No cause
constrains the Teucrian cowards and their King
to eat their words and what they pledged refuse.
On his own terms I come. Bring forward, sire,
the sacrifice, and seal the pact I swear:
either to deepest hell this hand shall fling
yon Trojan runaway—the Latins all
may sit at ease and see!—and my sole sword
efface the general shame; or let him claim
the conquest, and Lavinia be his bride.”