swifty down her path a maiden seen of none. She views the vast throng, scans the shore, and sees the harbour forsaken and the fleet abandoned. But far apart on the lonely shore the Trojan women wept for Anchises’ loss, and all, as they wept, gazed on the fathomless flood. “Ah, for weary folk what waves remain, what wastes of sea!” Such is the one cry of all.

It is a city they crave; of the sea’s hardships they have had enough. So into their midst, well versed in working ill, Iris flings herself, and lays aside the face and robe of a goddess. She becomes Bero�, aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once family, fame, and children, and in this form joins the throng of Dardan mothers. “Ah, wretched we,” she cries, “whom Achaean hands dragged not to death in war beneath our native