22/43 Lo, to you, to thee, Latinus, father of the bride so fair, I, Turnus, I, in prowess past compare, Devote this life. AEneas calls but me, So let him, rather than that Drances bear The smart, if death the wrathful gods decree, Or, if 'tis glory's field, usurp the victor's fee." LVIII. While thus, with wrangling and contentious doubt, They urged debate, AEneas his array Moved from the camp. Behold, a trusty scout Back, through Latinus' palace, speeds his way, And fills the town with tumult and dismay. See the meadows far away Alive with foes! Rage, turmoil and alarm In turns distract the town. |