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pillows of her couch swarm a troop of tender Loves, begging her make sign where she bids them bear her torches, what hearts they shall transfix: whether to wreak their cruelty on land or sea, to set gods at variance or yet once more to vex the Thunderer. Herself she has yet no purpose, no certain will or pleasure. Weary she lies upon her cushions, where once the Lemnian chains^[1] crept over the bed and held it fast, learning its guilty secret. Then a boy of that winged crowd, whose mouth was fieriest and whose deft hand ne’er sent his arrow amiss, from the midst of the troop thus called to her in his sweet boyish voice—his quivered brethren held their peace.

“Mother,” says he, “thou knowest how no warfare finds my right hand idle; whomsoe’er of gods or men thou dost assign me, he feels the smart. Yet once, O Mother, suffer us to be moved by the tears and suppliant hands, by the vows and prayers of men; for not of steely adamant are we born, but are all thy offspring. There is a youth of famous Latin family, whom nobility rejoicing brought forth of old patrician stock, and in prescience of his beauty named straightway from our sky. Him ere now have I plied relentlessly—such was thy pleasure—with all my quiver’s armoury, and pierced him to his dismay with a thick hail of darts; and for all he is much sought by Ausonian matrons as a son-in-law, I have quelled and mastered him, and bidden him bear a noble lady’s yoke and spend long years in hoping. But her we spared—such was thy command—and did but lightly graze with the flame’s tip and loose-strung bow. Since then I can bear marvelling witness what fires the heart-sick youth is smothering, what strong urgency of mine he suffers night and day.