Ye Trojan flames, your testimony bear, What I perform’d, and what I suffer’d there; No sword avoiding in the fatal strife, Expos’d to death, and prodigal of life; Witness, ye heavens!
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain A death so ling’ring, and so full of pain, Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife Of lab’ring nature, and dissolve her life.
This done, Aeneas orders, for the close, The strife of archers with contending bows.
My cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife, And final ruin, for a ravish’d wife.
Or desperate should he rush and lose his life, With odds oppress’d, in such unequal strife?
This said, Entellus for the strife prepares; Stripp’d of his quilted coat, his body bares; Compos’d of mighty bones and brawn he stands, A goodly tow’ring object on the sands.
So may the gods, who view this friendly strife, Restore me to thy lov’d embrace with life, Condemn’d to pay my vows, (as sure I trust,) This thy request is cruel and unjust.
The gods from heav’n survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life.
Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife, Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.
Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life.
Rang’d on the line oppos’d, Antonius brings Barbarian aids, and troops of Eastern kings; Th’ Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar, Of tongues discordant, and a mingled war: And, rich in gaudy robes, amidst the strife, His ill fate follows him— th’ Egyptian wife.
Nor less the captive struggles for his life: He writhes his body to prolong the strife, And, fencing for his naked throat, exerts His utmost vigor, and the point averts.
From her black bloody locks the Fury shakes Her darling plague, the fav’rite of her snakes; With her full force she threw the poisonous dart, And fix’d it deep within Amata’s heart, That, thus envenom’d, she might kindle rage, And sacrifice to strife her house husband’s age.
Ten times already round the listed place One chief had fled, and t’ other giv’n the chase: No trivial prize is play’d; for on the life Or death of Turnus now depends the strife.
Then young Ascanius, who, before this day, Was wont in woods to shoot the savage prey, First bent in martial strife the twanging bow, And exercis’d against a human foeWith this bereft Numanus of his life, Who Turnus’ younger sister took to wife.
’T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife By my command, to save her brother’s lifeAt least to try; but, by the Stygian lake, (The most religious oath the gods can take,) With this restriction, not to bend the bow, Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
"Ah me!" she cries, "in this unequal strife What can thy sister more to save thy life?
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life; Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: Against a yielded man, ’t is mean ignoble strife."
Meantime the mother goddess, full of fears, To Neptune thus address’d, with tender tears: "The pride of Jove’s imperious queen, the rage, The malice which no suff’rings can assuage, Compel me to these pray’rs; since neither fate, Nor time, nor pity, can remove her hate: Ev’n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife; Still vanquish’d, yet she still renews the strife.
Turnus, ’t is true, in this unequal strife, Shall lose, with honor, his devoted life, Or change it rather for immortal fame, Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came: But you, a servile and inglorious band, For foreign lords shall sow your native land, Those fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain’d, Which have so long their lazy sons sustain’d."
But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life, And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath: "O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears, And whate’er price Amata’s honor bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop; Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne: Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r, To waive…
Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell, And pale Diseases, and repining Age, Want, Fear, and Famine’s unresisted rage; Here Toils, and Death, and Death’s half-brother, Sleep, Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep; With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind, Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind; The Furies’ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes.
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Call it the circle of strife: The Arkansas couple who drove it before me were sketchy; Ozark Amy was obviously shady; hopefully, some Illinois down-and-outer will enjoy it for a bit too.
Gillian Flynn -- Gone Girl
I hear things, rumblings in Downworld, the rumor of coming strife.