non illum nostri possunt mutare labores, nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus Sithoniasque nives hiemis subeamus aquosae, nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo, Aethiopum versemus ovis sub sidere Cancri.
No toils of ours can change that god, not though amid the keenest frosts we drink the Hebrus and brave the Thracian snows and wintry sleet, not though, when the dying bark withers on the lofty elm, we drive to and fro the Ethiopians sheep beneath the star of Cancer!
final_alignments\Virgil_Eclogues.json