illum turbat amor figitque in virgine vultus; ardet in arma magis paucisque adfatur Amatam: ne, quaeso, ne me lacrimis neve omine tanto prosequere in duri certamina Martis euntem, o mater; neque enim Turno mora libera mortis.
Love throws Turnus into turmoil, and he fastens his gaze upon the maid; then, fired yet more for the fray, he briefly addresses Amata: I beseech you, mother, do not send me off with tears or such ill omen as I go forth to stern wars conflicts; for Turnus is not free to delay his death.