proicite arma manu: deus ecce furentibus obstat, ecce deus! miseri, quid pulchrum sanguine victo Aoniam et diri saturare novalia Cadmi? sed quid vana cano, quid fixos arceo casus? ibimus.
Throw away your weapons. See, the god opposes your frenzy, see, the god! Wretches, where is the glory in drenching Aonia and dire Cadmus meadows with your vanquished blood? But why do I prophesy in vain? Why ward off fortunes fixed? We shall go.
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book3.json