The Aeneid

by Virgil

I no longer beg for the long-lost marriage he betrayed, nor would I ask him now to desert his kingdom, no, his lovely passion, Latium. All I ask is time,

But no tears move Aeneas now. He is deaf to all appeals. He won’t relent.

BRO

terrified by her fate, tragic Dido prays for death,

“And now, what shall I do? Make a mockery of myself, go back to my old suitors, tempt them to try again? Beg the Numidians, grovel, plead for a husband— 670 though time and again I scorned to wed their like?

Cant see a future for herself

Such terrible grief kept breaking from her heart as Aeneas slept in peace on his ship’s high stern,

Kill him with a gun

catching sight of the Trojan’s clothes and the bed they knew by heart, delaying a moment for tears, for memory’s sake, the queen lay down

I shall hold games for all our Trojans. First a race for our swift ships, then for our fastest man afoot,

Cloanthus who bred your line, you Roman Cluentius, sails the bright blue Scylla.

captains stand on the sterns, their purple-and-gold regalia gleaming far afield.

all care for self-respect and the safety of his crew and pitches the sluggish Menoetes off the stern, headlong into the sea and takes the helm himself.

They were drawing abreast, perhaps they’d seize the prize if Cloanthus had not flung his arms to the sea and poured his prayers

The prayer is the stongest- allegiance to god instead of oneself or glory

To the winner a cloak of braided gold that’s fringed 280 with twin ripples of Meliboean crimson running round it, and woven into its weft, Ganymede, prince of woody Ida spins his javelins, wearing out the racing stags

Prize of being beholden by Jove????

gives Sergestus the prize that he had promised: a slave girl, Pholoë, born of Cretan stock and hardly inept at Minerva’s works of hand, nursing twins at her breast.

Bruh what

But he won’t forget Euryalus, his great love, never,

GAYYY

we’ll fight as equals here. These gloves of Eryx, I’ll give them up for your sake, Dares.

Here, in victory, I lay down my gloves, my skill.”

little Atys, a boy the boy Prince Iulus loved.

HomoSEXUAL

We’re never again to see the rivers Hector loved, the Simois and the Xanthus? No, come, action! Help me burn these accursed ships to ashes.

royal nurse to Priam’s several sons, called out: “That’s not Beroë, you women of Troy— no Trojan wife of Doryclus! Look at her beauty, her fiery eyes, immortal marks— what pride, what features, and what a voice, what stride!

The intelligence of women <3

They come to their senses, know their people, and Juno is driven from their hearts.

But first go down to the House of Death, the Underworld, go through Avernus’ depths, my son, to seek me, meet me there. I am not condemned to wicked Tartarus, those bleak shades, I live in Elysium,

carried closer in to the Sirens’ rocks

the people of Athens, doomed—so cruel— to pay with the lives of seven sons. Year in, year out, the urn stands ready, the fateful lots are drawn.

To the bull?

And you too, Icarus, what part you might have played in a work that great, had Daedalus’ grief allowed it. Twice he tried to engrave your fall in gold and twice his hands, a father’s hands, fell useless.

the power of god comes closer, closer. “Why so slow, Trojan Aeneas?” she shouts, “so slow to pray, to swear your vows? Not until you do will the great jaws of our spellbound house gape wide.” And with that command the prophetess fell silent.

Already a new Achilles springs to life in Latium, son of a goddess too!

loved by impartial Jove

That guy is anything but impartial bruh

A friend lies dead—oh, you could not know— 180 his body pollutes your entire fleet with

NOOOOOOO

And a throng of monsters too—what brutal forms are stabled at the gates—Centaurs,

Aeneas, with such appeals, with welling tears, tried to soothe her rage, her wild fiery glance. But she, her eyes fixed on the ground, turned away, her features no more moved by his pleas

Doomed Theseus sits on his seat and there he will sit forever.

But you, Roman, remember, rule with all your power the peoples of the earth—these will be your arts: to put your stamp on the works and ways of peace, to spare the defeated, break the proud in war.”

Circe’s land where the Sun’s rich daughter makes her deadly groves

Aeneas cries at once: “Hail to the country owed to me by Fate!

awesome aura.

How Fate compelled the worlds of Europe and Asia to clash in war!

Circe bred, making off with one of her father’s stallions to mate him with a mare. 330 Riding high with Latinus’ gifts and words,

Mentioned in MM's Circe????

Now at a stroke make young men thirst for weapons, demand them, grasp them—now!”

Amata seething with all a woman’s anguish, fire and fury over the Trojans just arrived and Turnus’ marriage lost.

You, her father, have you no pity for your daughter, none for yourself? No pity for me, her mother? Wait, with the first Northwind that lying pirate will desert us, setting sail on the high seas, our virgin as his loot!

Rumor flies, and the hearts of Latian mothers flare up with the same fury, the same frenzy spurs them to seek new homes.

Always women succumbing to a hysteria of sorts

See to your own chores, 520 go tend the shrines and statues of the gods. Men will make war and peace. War’s their work.” Enough—

Bruh

Rolling her eyes, fiery as he faltered, struggling to say more, she hurled the man back and reared twin snakes from her coiling hair and cracked her whips and raved in her rabid words: 530 “So, I’m in my dotage, am I? A doddering wreck too spent to see the truth?

As she should

“Aeneas arrives with his armada, bringing the conquered household gods of Troy, claiming himself a king demanded now by Fate.

Again painted as arrogant liar

you who bring back Troy to us from enemy hands and save her heights forever! How long we waited for you, here on Laurentine soil 40 and Latian fields. Here your home is assured, yes, assured for your household gods. Don’t retreat.

“Horsemen are rushing toward the Tuscan monarch’s gates!” Mothers struck with terror pray and re-echo prayers, the fear builds as the deadly peril comes closer, the specter of War looms larger, ever larger…

There is the story of Italy, Rome in all her triumphs. There the fire-god forged them,

twin boys at her dugs, who hung there, frisky, suckling without a fear as she with her lithe neck bent back, stroking each in turn, licked her wolf pups into shape with a mother’s tongue.

Sabine women brutally dragged from the crowded bowl

And here in the heart of the shield: the bronze ships, the battle of Actium, you could see it all, the world drawn up for war,