You, the sons of Laomedon, as if to atone for the butchery of our cattle, our young bulls? 300 You’d force the innocent Harpies from their fathers’ kingdom? Take what I say to heart and stamp it in your minds: this prophecy the almighty Father made to Phoebus and Phoebus made to me, the greatest of the Furies, and I reveal to you. Italy is the land you seek? You call on the winds to sweep you there by sea? To Italy you will go. Permitted to enter port but never granted a city girded round by ramparts, not before some terrible hunger and your attack on us— outrageous slaughter—drive you to gnaw
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