Some tale, some new pretense, he daily coin’d, To soothe his sister, and delude her mind.
Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend?
In little space He found his error of the double race; Not, as before he deem’d, deriv’d from Crete; No more deluded by the doubtful seat: Then said: ’O son, turmoil’d in Trojan fate!
Go now, deluded man, and seek again New toils, new dangers, on the dusty plain.
Let not the Trojans, with a feign’d pretense Of proffer’d peace, delude the Latian prince.
Entellus wastes his forces on the wind, And, thus deluded of the stroke design’d, Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast And weighty limbs his ancient mother press’d.
Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn; Of polish’d ivory this, that of transparent horn: True visions thro’ transparent horn arise; Thro’ polish’d ivory pass deluding lies.
Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground.
Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed.
First, then, that happy shore, that seems so nigh, Will far from your deluded wishes fly; Long tracts of seas divide your hopes from Italy: For you must cruise along Sicilian shores, And stem the currents with your struggling oars; Then round th’ Italian coast your navy steer; And, after this, to Circe’s island veer; And, last, before your new foundations rise, Must pass the Stygian lake, and view the nether skies.
You know in what deluding joys we pass’d The night that was by Heav’n decreed our last: For, when the fatal horse, descending down, Pregnant with arms, o’erwhelm’d th’ unhappy town She feign’d nocturnal orgies; left my bed, And, mix’d with Trojan dames, the dances led Then, waving high her torch, the signal made, Which rous’d the Grecians from their ambuscade.
Gath’ring at length on her deluded foe, She swings her ax, and rises to the blow Full on the helm behind, with such a sway The weapon falls, the riven steel gives way: He groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace; Brains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.
To you a quiet seat the gods allow: You have no shores to search, no seas to plow, Nor fields of flying Italy to chase: (Deluding visions, and a vain embrace!
Scarce had he said, the prophetess began: "What hopes delude thee, miserable man?