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See, I you feign your bitterest foe
(Nor care I though in truth 'twere so)
First of the train the suit begin:
Have mercy on your wretched kin,
Allay your pride, confess defeat,
And routed from the strife retreat!
Suffice it us, those heaps of killed,
Those fields unpeopled and untilled.
Or, if ambition yet has charms,
If courage thus your bosom warms,
If spousal kingdoms seem so sweet,
Be bold, and dare your foe to meet.
Forsooth, that an imperial bride
May gratify our Turnus' pride,
We, worthless souls, must needs be swept
To death, unburied and unwept.
Now, if one generous spark remains
Of native fire in those dull veins,
Front him that calls you, eye to eye,
And, oft defied, in turn defy!'

That taunt the rage of Turnus woke:
He groaned and into utterance broke:
'High, Dranccs, swells your stream of words,
When battle claims not tongues but swords:
When council gathers to the hall,
You still are there, the first of all:
But needs not now the court to fill
With that big talk you vent at will
While ramparts yet the foe repel,
Nor choked-up moats with carnage swell.
Then roll your thunders—'tis your way—
And call me coward, as well you may;
You, whose strong hand has heaped the plain
With trophied trunks and hills of slain.
What glowing bravery can do
We twain may try, myself and you: