Not in vain 'Twixt monarchs stands the peace, which plighted hands ordain.
XXXVI.

"Let now this message to your King be given.
'A child, the daughter of my heart, is mine, Whom neither frequent prodigies from heaven, Nor voices uttered from my father's shrine, Permit with one of Latin birth to join.
Strange sons--so Latin oracles conspire-- Shall come, whose offspring shall exalt our line.
Thy King the bridegroom whom the Fates require I deem, and, if in aught I read the truth, desire.'" XXXVII.

So speaks Latinus, and with kindly care Choice steeds selects.

Three hundred of the best Stand in his lofty stables, sleek and fair; And forth in order for each Teucrian guest His servants led them, at their King's behest.
Rich housings, wrought in many a purple fold, And broidered rugs adorn them; o'er each breast Hang golden poitrels, glorious to behold.
Each champs with foaming mouth a chain of glittering gold.
XXXVIII.

A car he orders for the Dardan sire, And twin-yoked coursers of ethereal seed, Whose snorting nostrils breathe the flames of fire.
Half-mortal, half-immortal was each steed, The bastard birth of that celestial breed, Which cunning Circe from a mortal mare Raised to her sire the Sun-god.