en qui nostra sibi bello conubia poscunt! quis deus Italiam, quae vos dementia adegit? non hic Atridae nec fandi fictor Ulixes: durum a stirpe genus natos ad flumina primum deferimus saevoque gelu duramus et undis; venatu invigilant pueri silvasque fatigant, flectere ludus equos et spicula tendere cornu; at patiens operum parvoque adsueta iuventus aut rastris terram domat aut quatit oppida bello.
See: these are the men who go to war to claim our brides for themselves! What god, what madness, has driven you to Italy? Here are no sons of Atreus, no fable-forging Ulysses! A race of hardy stock, we first bring our newborn sons to the river, and harden them with the waters cruel cold; as boys they keepvigil for the chase, and tire the forests; their sport is to rein the steed and shoot arrows from the bow; but patient of toil, and inured to want, our youth tames earth with the hoe or shakes cities in battle.
final_alignments\Virgil_Aeneid_Book9.json