"What mischief, Latins, hath your minds misled, To shun our friendship in the hour of need, And rush to arms?
Peace ask ye for the dead, The War-God's prey, whom folly doomed to bleed?
Peace to the living would I fain concede.
I came not hither, but with Heaven to guide.
Fate chose this country, and this home decreed; Nor war I with the race.

Your king denied Our proffered league; 'twas he on Turnus' arms relied.
XV.

"'Twere juster then that Turnus hand to hand His life had ventured.

Dreams he in his pride To end the war, and drive us from the land?
_He_ should have met me; he or I had died, As Fate or prowess might the day decide.
Go, take your dead, and let the bale-fires blaze: Ye have your answer." Thus the prince replied, And each on each the wondering heralds gaze, Mute with admiring awe, and wildered with amaze.
XVI.

Then Drances, ever fain with gibes and hate To vex young Turnus, takes the word and cries, "O Trojan, great in fame, in arms more great, What praise of mine shall match thee with the skies?
What most--thy deeds or justice--shall I prize?
Grateful, this answer to our friends we bear, And thee (let Turnus seek his own allies), Thee King Latinus shall his friend declare, And Latium's sons with joy Troy's destined walls prepare." XVII.