At procul ut Dirae stridorem agnovit et alas, infelix crinis scindit Iuturna solutos unguibus ora soror foedans et pectora pugnis: quid nunc te tua, Turne, potest germana iuvare? aut quid iam durae superat mihi? qua tibi lucem arte morer? talin possum me opponere monstro? iam iam linquo acies.
But when his unhappy sister Juturna recognized the Dread Ones whirring wings from afar, she tears her loosened hair, disfiguring her face with her nails, and her breasts with her fists: What help, Turnus, can your sister give you now? What still awaits me, who have endured so much? With what contrivance can I prolong your life? Can I stand against this terrible portent? Now at last I quit the field.