Fiercely roll Her blood-shot eyes, and, frowning, suddenly She pours the frantic passions of her soul.
"Ho! Latin mothers all, where'er ye be, Here, if ye love me, if a mother's plea Deserve your pity, let your hair be seen Loosed from the fillets, and be mad, like me." So through the woods, the wild-beasts' lairs between, With Bacchanalian goads Alecto drives the Queen.
LVI.

When now thus fairly was the work begun, The barbs of anger planted, pleased to view Latinus' purpose and his house undone, On dusky wings the Goddess soared, and through The liquid air to neighbouring Ardea flew, The bold Rutulian's city, built of yore By Danae, thither when the South-wind blew Her and her followers.

Ardea's name it bore, And Ardea's name still lives, though fortune smiles no more.
LVII.

There in his palace, locked in sleep's embrace, Lay Turnus.

Straight Alecto, versed in snares, Doffs the fiend's figure and her frowning face.
The likeness of a withered crone she wears, With wrinkled forehead and with hoary hairs.
Her fillet and her olive crown proclaim The priestess.