Quas tibi devoti iuvenes pro patre renato, summe ducum, grates aut quae pia vota rependant? tu, seu tarda situ rebusque exhausta senectus erravit, seu blanda diu Fortuna regressum maluit, attonitum et venturi fulminis ictus horrentem tonitru tantum lenique procella contentus monuisse senem, cumque horrida supra aequora curarum socius procul Itala rura linqueret, hic molles Campani litoris oras et Diomedeas concedere iussus in arces, atque hospes, non exsul erat.
Highest of leaders, what thanks do the young men, devoted to you as they are, give you for father reborn! What pious vows discharge! Was it age that erred, grown slow with decay and worn out with affairs, or did Fortune so long indulgent choose to withdraw? The old man stood dumbfounded, trembling before the coming lightning stroke: you were content to warn him with mere thunder and lenient storm. While the partner of his care was crossing rough seas and leaving Italys fields far behind him, he was told to retire to the soft shores of Campania and the towers of Diomedes. He was a guest, not an exile.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book3.json