But not for that did the burning flames lay aside their unquelled fury; under the wet oak the tow is alive, slowly belching smoke; the smouldering heat devours the keels, a plague sinking through the whole frame, nor can the heroes’ strength, nor the floods they pour, avail.

Then loyal Aeneas rent the garment from his shoulders, and called the gods to his aid, lifting up his hands: “Almighty Jupiter, if you do not yet utterly abhor the Trojans to their last man, if your loving-kindness of old has any regard for human sorrows, grant to the fleet to escape the flame even now, Father, and snatch from doom the slender fortunes of the Trojans! Or if I deserve it, do you with leveled thunderbolt send me down to death the little that remains, and here overwhelm us with your hand.” Scarce had he uttered this