infelix, nati funus crudele videbis! hi nostri reditus, exspectatique triumphi? haec mea magna fides? at non, Euandre, pudendis vulneribus pulsum aspicies, nec sospite dirum optabis nato funus pater.
Unhappy man, you will see the bitter funeral of your son! Is this our return, our awaited triumph? Is this my sure pledge? But your eyes, Evander, will not look on your son routed with shameful wounds nor will you, his father, pray for a death accursed because your son is alive.