At regina nova pugnae conterrita sorte flebat et ardentem generum moritura tenebat: Turne, per has ego te lacrimas, per si quis Amatae tangit honos animum: spes tu nunc una, senectae tu requies miserae, decus imperiumque Latini te penes, in te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.
But the queen, dismayed by the new terms of conflict, wept and, ready to die, clung to her fiery son: Turnus, by these my tears, by any reverence for Amata that yet may touch your heart'you are now my only hope, the comfort of my sad old age; in your hands are the honour and sovereignty of Latinus, on you rests all our sinking house'
final_alignments\Virgil_Aeneid_Book12.json