Softly he spoke; then striding took his way, With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay; His head rais’d high on tapestry beneath, And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath; A king and prophet, by King Turnus lov’d: But fate by prescience cannot be remov’d.
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She is prescient in her political predictions.
He knew what this essence could do to him—the spice change that pushed his mind into prescient awareness.