Wroth for her Turnus, boiled with woman's rage and spleen.

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