Virgil

Since Fortune's got the upper hand,

let's follow her where she calls and change course.

Deep in her breast lives the silent wound.

She told no one what she saw, not even her sister.

Just let me offer a consolation prize to a luckless man, a friend without a fault.

Wars, horrendous wars,

and the Tiber foaming with tides of blood, I see it all!

Just before the entrance, even within the very jaws of Hell, Grief and avenging Cares have made their bed; there pale Diseases dwell, and sad Age, and Fear, and ill-counselling Famine, and loathly Want, shapes terrible to view; and Death and Distress; next, Death's own brother Sleep.

She calls it a marriage,

using the word to cloak her sense of guilt.

The fatal dart

Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart.

The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide,

And aid, with eager shouts, the favoured side.

Cries, murmurs, clamours, with a mixing sound,

From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.

Hug the shore... let others keep to the deep!

What dreams thrill me with fears?

More lovely virtue, in a lovely form.