unus ut e silvis Pholos habitator opacae inter et Aetnaeos aequus consurgere fratres, ante fores, ubi turba ducum vulgique frementis, Amphiara, tuas quae tanta ignavia, clamat, Inachidae uosque o socio de sanguine Achivi? unius (heu pudeat!) plebeia ad limina civis tot ferro accinctae gentes animisque paratae pendemus? non si ipse cavo sub vertice Cirrhae (quisquis is est, timidis Famaeque ita visus) Apollo mugiat insano penitus seclusus in antro, exspectare queam dum pallida virgo tremendas nuntiet ambages.
Like a denizen of darkling Pholo from out the forest or one that might rise equal among Aetnas brethren,  he stands before Amphiaraus doors, where leaders and clamouring multitude had congregated, crying: What poltroonery is this, sons of Inachus and you Achaeans of allied blood? So many peoples, sword-girt and ready-hearted, do we hang in doubt at the plebeian  threshold of a single citizen? Oh for shame! Were Apollo himself, whoever he is (cowards and Rumour so think of him), to bellow under Cirrhas hollow peak, deep withdrawn in his frenzied cavern, I could not wait for the pale maiden  to announce her fearsome riddles.
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book3.json