656—663
BOOK XXII
403
Whose hand in vain, directed by her love,
The martial scarf and robe of triumph wove.
Now to devouring flames be these a prey,
Useless to thee, from this accursed day!
Yet let the sacrifice at least be paid,
And honour to the living, not the dead!"
So spake the mournful dame; her matrons hear,
Sigh back her sighs, and answer tear with tear.
