Thy sacrilegious worship they disdain,
And rather would the Grecian fires sustain.
Perhaps my greatest shame is still to come,
And part of thee lies hid within my womb.
The babe unborn must perish by thy hate,
And perish guiltless in his mother's fate.
Some God, thou say'st, thy voyage does command;
Would the same God had barr'd thee from my land.
The same, I doubt not, thy departure steers, 155
Who kept thee out at sea so many years;
Where thy long labours were a price so great,
Which thou to purchase Troy would'st not repeat.
But Tiber now thou seek'st; to be at best,
When there arriv'd a poor precarious guest.
Yet it deludes thy search: perhaps it will
To thy old age lie undiscover'd still.
A ready crown and wealth in dow'r I bring,
And without conqu'ring here thou art a king.
Here thou to Carthage mayʼst transfer thy Troy:
Here young Ascanius may his arms employ ! 165
And while we live secure in soft repose,
Bring many laurels home from conquer'd foes.
By Cupid's arrows, I adjure thee stay;
By all the Gods, companions of thy way.
So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive,
Live still, and with no future fortune strive ;
So may thy youthful son old age attain,
And thy dead father's bones in peace remain ;
As thou hast pity on unhappy me,
Who knew no crime, but too much love of thee.
I am not born for fierce Achilles' line,
Nor did my parents against Troy combine.
To be thy wife if I unworthy prove,
By some inferior name admit my love.
To be secur'd of still possessing thee
What would I do, and what would I not be.
Our Lybian coasts their certain seasons know,
When free from tempests passengers may go,
But now, with northern blasts the billows roar, 185
And drive the floating sea-weed to the shore.
Leave to my care the time to sail away;
When safe, I will not suffer thee to stay,
Thy weary men would be with ease content;
Their sails are tatter'd, and their masts are spent.'
If by no merit I thy mind can move,
What thou deny'st my merit give my love.
Stay, till I learn my loss to undergo;
And give me time to struggle with my woe,
If not know this, I will not suffer long ;
My life's too loathsome, and my love too strong.
Death holds my pen, and dictates what I say,
While cross my lap the Trojan sword I lay, [flood,
My tears flow down; the sharp edge cuts their
And drinks my sorrows, that must drinks my blood.
How well my gift does with my fate agree!
My fun'ral pomp is cheaply made by thee.
Tono new wounds my bosom I display,
The sword but enters where love made the way,
But thou, dear sister, and yet dearer friend,
Shalt my cold ashes, to their urn attend,
Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast,
I lost that title, when my fame I lost.
This short inscription only let it bear,
"Unhappy Dido lies, in quiet here.
"The cause of death,and sword by which she dyd, "Aneas gave; the rest her arm supply'd.”
So in unwonted notes, when sure to die,
The mournful swan sings her own elegy,
I do not hope by this to change my fate,
Since heav'n and you are both resolv'd to hate :
Robb'd of my honour, 'tis no wonder now,
That you disdain me when I meanly sue;
Deaf to my pray'rs that you resolve to go,
And leave th' unhappy you have render'd so.
You and your love the winds away must bear,
Forgot is all that you so oft did swear:
With cruel haste to distant lands you fly,
Yet know not whose they are, nor where they lie.
On Carthage and its rising walls you frown,
And shun a sceptre, which is now your own;
All you have gain'd, you proudly do contemn,
And fondly seek a fancy'd diadem.
And should you reach at last this promis'd land,
Who'll give its power into a stranger's hand?
Another easy Dido do you seek;
And new occasions new-made vows to break? When can you walls like ours of Carthage build, And see your streets with crowds of subjects fill'd? But tho' all this succeeded to your mind,
So true a wife no search could ever find.
Scorch'd up with love's fierce fire my life does
Like incense on the flaming altar cast ;
All day Eneas walks before my sight,
In all my dreams I see him ev'ry night:
But see him still ungrateful as before,
And such as, if I could, I should abhor.
But the strong flame burns on against my will,
I call him false, but love the traitor still,
Goddess of love, thee all the world adore!
And shall thy son slight thy almighty pow'r?
His brother's stubborn soul let Cupid move,
Teach me to hate, or him to merit love!
But the impostor his high birth did feign,
(Tho' to that tale his face did credit gain,)
He was not born of Venus, who could prove
So cruel, and so faithless in his love.
From rocks or mountains he deriv'd his birth!
Fierce wolves or savage tigers brought him forth!
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