HKB
Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword High o’er his head, with this reproachful word: “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies: “Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death? ’Tis no dishonour for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope of victory; Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design: As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine. My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand. For this, this only favour let me sue, If pity can to conquer’d foes be due: Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave. Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate; Protect me from their vengeance after fate: This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.” He said, and to the sword his throat applied. The crimson stream distain’d his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.