fgmpr At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura vulnus alit venis et caeco carpitur igni. multa viri virtus animo multusque recursat gentis honos; haerent infixi pectore vultus 5verbaque, nec placidam membris dat cura quietem. Postera Phoebea lustrabat lampade terras umentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram, cum sic unanimam adloquitur male sana sororem: “Anna soror, quae me suspensam insomnia terrent! 10quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus hospes, quem sese ore ferens, quam forti pectore et armis! credo equidem, nec vana fides, genus esse deorum. degeneres animos timor arguit. heu! quibus ille iactatus fatis! quae bella exhausta canebat! 15si mihi non animo fixum immotumque sederet, ne cui me vinclo vellem sociare iugali, postquam primus amor deceptam morte fefellit si non pertaesum thalami taedaeque fuisset, huic uni forsan potui succumbere culpae. 20Anna, fatebor enim, miseri post fata Sychaei coniugis et sparsos fraterna caede Penates solus hic inflexit sensus animumque labantem
But the queen, long since smitten with a grievous love-pang, feeds the wound with her lifeblood, and is wasted with fire unseen. Oft to her mind rushes back the hero’s valour, oft his glorious stock; his looks and words cling fast to her bosom, and longing withholds calm rest from her limbs.
The morrow’s dawn was lighting the earth with the lamp of Phoebus, and had scattered from the sky the dewy shades, when, much distraught, she thus speaks to her sister, sharer of her heart: “Anna, my sister, what dreams thrill me with fears? Who is this stranger guest who has entered our home? How noble his mien! How brave in heart and feats of arms! I believe it well—nor is my confidence vain—that he is sprung from gods. It is fear that proves souls base-born. Alas! by what fates is he vexed! What wars, long endured, did he recount! Were the purpose not planted in my mind, fixed and immovable, to ally myself with none in bond of wedlock, since my first love, turning traitor, cheated me by death; were I not tired of the bridal bed and torch, to this one fault, perhaps, I might have yielded! Anna—for I will own it—since the death of my hapless lord Sychaeus, and the shattering of our home by a brother’s murder, 1 he alone has swayed my will and overthrown