quo, diva, feros gravis exseris ungues? non te forma movet, non te lacrimabilis aetas? hunc nec saeva viro potuisset carpere Procne nec fera crudeles Colchis durasset in iras, editus Aeolia nec si foret iste Creusa; torvus ab hoc Athamas insanos flecteret arcus; hunc, quamquam Hectoreos cineres Troiamque perosus, turribus e Phrygiis flesset missurus Ulixes.
Whom, goddess, do you bare your savage claws to harm? Does not beauty move you or piteous youth? Fierce as she was to her husband, Procne could not have torn him, nor would the savage Colchian have steeled herself to ruthless wrath, not though he had been the son of Aeolian Creusa. From him grim Athamas would have turned away his mad bow. Ulysses would have wept as he made to cast him from the Phrygian battlements, much as he hated Hectors ashes and Troy.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book2.json