The Aeneid

Fléctere si néqueo súperos Acheronta movebo - If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.

The descent into Hell is easy

Let me rage before I die.

The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent and easy is the way.

Through pain I've learned to comfort suffering men

Una Salus Victis Nullam Sperare Salutem - (Latin - written 19 BC) The only hope for the doomed, is no hope at all...

...She nourishes the poison in her veins and is consumed by a secret fire.

Do the gods light this fire in our hearts or does each man's mad desire become his god?

Vera incessu patuit dea. (The goddess indubitable was revealed in her step.)

But the queen--too long she has suffered the pain of love, hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood, consumed by the fire buried in her heart. [...] His looks, his words, they pierce her heart and cling-- no peace, no rest for her body, love will give her none.

The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.

Ah, merciless Love, is there any length to which you cannot force the human heart to go?

A shifty, fickle object is woman, always. (Varium et mutabile semper femina.)

Duty bound, Aeneas, though he struggled with desire to calm and comfort her in all her pain, to speak to her and turn her mind from grief, and though he sighed his heart out, shaken still with love if her, yet took the course heaven gave him and turned back to the fleet.

the dewy night unrolls a heaven thickly jewelled with sparkling stars

Friend, have the courage To care little for wealth, and shape yourself, You too, to merit godhead.

What good are prayers and shrines to a person mad with love? The flame keeps gnawing into her tender marrow hour by hour, and deep in her heart the silent wound lives on.

Will Mars be always in your windy tongue and in your flying feet?

..and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the sea and what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl...

What a tale he's told, what a bitter bowl of war he's drunk to the dregs.

Facilis descensus Averno: Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; Sed revocare gradium superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est. (The gates of Hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this task and mighty labor lies.)

So ran the speech. Burdened and sick at heart, He feigned hope in his look, and inwardly Contained his anguish. […] Aeneas, more than any, secretly Mourned for them all