ergo inter medias sese haud ignara nocendi conicit et faciemque deae vestemque reponit; fit Beroe, Tmarii coniunx longaeva Dorycli, cui genus et quondam nomen natique fuissent, ac sic Dardanidum mediam se matribus infert: o miserae, quas non manus, inquit, Achaica bello traxerit ad letum patriae sub moenibus! o gens infelix, cui te exitio Fortuna reservat? septima post Troiae excidium iam vertitur aestas, cum freta, cum terras omnis, tot inhospita saxa sideraque emensae ferimur, dum per mare magnum Italiam sequimur fugientem et volvimur undis.
So into their midst, well versed in working ill, Iris flings herself, and lays aside the face and robe of a goddess. She becomes Beroe, aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once had family, fame, and children, and in this form joins the throng of Dardan mothers. Ah, wretched we, she cries, whom Achaean hands dragged not to death in war beneath our native walls! Ah, hapless race, for what destruction does Fortune reserve you? The seventh summer is now on the wane since Troys overthrow and we measure in our course all seas and lands, with many rocks and stars inhospitable, while over the great deep we chase a fleeing Italy and toss upon the waves.