per ego oro tuosque, nate, meosque annos miseraeque per ubera matris, ne vati, ne crede, puer! superine profanum dignantur stimulare senem, cui vultus inanis exstinctique orbes et poena simillima diro Oedipodae? quid si insidiis et fraude dolosa rex agit,extrema est cui nostra in sorte timori nobilitas tuaque ante duces notissima virtus? illius haec forsan, remur quae verba deorum; ille monet! ne frena animo permitte calenti, da spatium tenuemque moram, male cuncta ministrat impetus.
Son, I beg you by your years and mine, by your unhappy mothers breasts, do not, my boy, do not believe the prophet. Do the High Ones deign to urge an unclean  ancient, with empty face and orbs extinct, bearing a punishment most like to fell Oedipus? What if it be treachery, a crafty trick of the kings, who in his desperate plight fears our nobility and your valour renowned above our chieftains? His mayhap are the words we think are the gods, he gives the command. Give not rein to your hot mood, give time, a little delay; impulse is ever a bad servant.
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book10.json