ve our shore,
Then twice ten ships of tough Italian oak
Build we, nor only let us build a score
Can they but man them (by the stream good store
Of timber is at hand); let them decide
The form, the number, and the size. What more
Is wanting, we will grudge not to provide,
Gold, labour, brass, and docks, and naval gear beside.

XLIII. "Nay more, to strike the proffered league, 'twere good
That chosen envoys to their camp should fare,
A hundred Latins of the noblest blood,
The peaceful olive in their hands to bear,
With gifts, the choicest that the realm can spare,
Talents of gold and ivory, just in weight,
The royal mantle, and the curule chair,
The marks of rule. With freedom now debate,
Consult the common weal, and help the sickly state."

XLIV. Up rose then Drances, with indignant mien,
Whom, spiteful still, the fame of Turnus stung
With carping envy, and malignant spleen;
Lavish of wealth, and fluent with his tongue,
No mean adviser in debate, and strong
In faction, but in battle cold and tame.
From royal seed his mother's race was sprung,
His sire's unknown. He thus with words of blame
Piles up the general wrath, and fans resentment's flame.

XLV. "Good king, the matter--it is plain, for each
Knows well our needs, but hesitates to say.
Let _him_ cease blustering, and allow free speech,
Him, for whose pride and sullen temper, yea,
I say it, let him threaten as he may--
Quenched is the light of many a chief, that lies
In earth's cold lap, and mourning and dismay
Have filled the town, while, sure of flight, he tries
To storm the Trojan camp, and idly flouts the skies.

XLVI. "One gift, O best of monarchs, add, to crown
Thy bounty to the Dardans,--one, beside
These many, nor let bluster bear thee down.
A worthy husband for thy child provide,
And peace shall with the lasting pact abide.
Else, if such terror doth our souls enslave,
Him now, in hope to turn away his pride,
Him let us pray his proper right to waive,
And, pitying, deign to yield what king and country crave.

XLVII. "O Turnus, cause of all our ills to-day,
Why make the land these miseries endure?
The war is desperate; for peace we pray,
And that one pledge, inviolably sure,
Naught else but which can make the peace secure.
Thy foeman, I--nor be the fact concealed,
For so thou deem'st--e