And whate'er Stranger lands upon your Coast,
Conclude me, by your own Example, loft.
I from your Rage a Strumpet's Name fhall hear,
While you forget what Part in it you bear.
You, my Crime's Author, will my Crime upbraid:
Deep under Ground, Oh, let me first be laid!
You boaft the Pomp and Plenty of your Land,
And promise all fhall be at my Command:
Your Trojan Wealth, believe me, I despise;
My own poor Native Land has dearer Ties.
Shou'd I be injur'd on your Phrygian Shore,
What help of Kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by fafon's Flatt'ry won :
I may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honeft Hearts, like mine, fufpect no Cheat,
And Love contributes to its own Deceit.
The Ships, about whofe Sides loud Tempefts roar,
With gentle Winds were wafted from the Shore.
Your teeming Mother dream'd a flaming Brand,
Sprung from her Womb, confum'd the Trojan Land.
To fecond this, old Prophecies confpire,
That Ilium fhall be burnt with Grecian Fire.
Both give me Fear; nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our Loves to aid.
For they, who loft their Caufe, Revenge will take
And for one Friend two Enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt, but, fhou'd I follow you,
The Sword would foon our fatal Crime pursue.
A Wrong fo great my Hufband's Rage would rouze,
And my Relations would his Caufe espouse.
You boaft your Strength and Courage; but, alas!
Your Words receive fmall Credit from your Face.
Let Heroes in the dufty Field delight,
Thofe Limbs were fashion'd for another Fight.
Bid Hector fally from the Walls of Troy;
A sweeter Quarrel fhould your Arms employ.
Yet Fears like these shou'd not my Mind perplex,
Were I as Wife as many of my Sex.
But Time and you may bolder Thoughts inspire;
And I perhaps may yield to your Defire.
You laft demand a private Conference;
These are your Words, but I can guess your Senfe.
Your unripe Hopes their Harvest must attend :
Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your Friend.
This is enough to let you understand;
For now my Pen has tir'd my tender Hand :
My Woman knows the Secret of my Heart,
And may hereafter better News impart.
EPIST. vii.
The ARGUMENT.
Eneas, the Son of Venus and Anchifes, having, at the Deftruction of Troy, faved his Gods, his Father, and Son Afcanius, from the Fire, put to Sea with twenty Sail of Ships; and, having been long toft with Tempefts, was at last caft upon the Shore of Libya, where Queen Dido (flying from the Cruelty of Pygmalion her Brother, who had killed her Husband Sichæus) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Æneas and his Fleet with great Civility, fell paffionately in Love with him, and in the End denied him not the laft Favours. But Mercury admonishing Æneas to go in Search of Italy, (a Kingdom promised him by the Gods) be readily prepared to obey him. Dido foon perceived it, and having in vain try'd all other Means to engage him to ftay, at last in Despair writes to him as follows.
O, on Meander's Banks, when Death is nigh,
Themournful Swan fings her own Elegy.
Not that I hope (for, oh, that Hope were vain!)
By Words your loft Affection to regain:
But having loft whate'er was worth my Care,
Why fhould I fear to lose a dying Pray'r ?
'Tis then refolv'd poor Dido must be left,
Of Life, of Honour, and of Love bereft !
While you, with loofen'd Sails, and Vows, prepare
To feek a Land that flies the Searcher's Care.
Nor can my rifing Tow'rs your Flight restrain,
Nor my new Empire, offer'd you in vain.
Built Walls you shun, unbuilt you feek; that Land
Is yet to conquer; but you this command.
Suppofe you landed where your Wish defign'd,
Think what Reception Foreigners would find.
What People is fo void of common Sense,
To vote Succeffion from a Native Prince ?
Yet there new Scepters and new Loves you seek;
New Vows to plight, and plighted Vows to break.
When will your Tow'rs the Height of Carthage know?
Or when your Eyes difcern fuch Crowds below?
If fuch a Town and Subjects you cou'd fee,
Still wou'd you want a Wife who lov'd like me.
For, oh, I burn, like Fires with Incense bright:
Not holy Tapers flame with purer Light:
Eneas is my Thoughts perpetual Theme;
Their daily Longing, and their nightly Dream.'
Yet he's ungrateful and obdurate ftill:
Fool that I am to place my Heart fo ill!
My felf I cannot to my self restore :
Still I complain, and still I love him more.
Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding Heart,
And pierce thy Brother's with an equal Dart.
I rave. Nor canft thou Venus' Offspring be,
Love's Mother could not bear a Son like thee.
From harden'd Oak, or from a Rock's cold Womb,
At least thou art from fome fierce Tigrefs come;
Or on rough Seas, from their Foundation torn,
Got by the Winds, and in a Tempest born:
Like that which now thy trembling Sailors fear;
Like that whofe Rage fhould ftill detain thee here.
Behold how high the foamy Billows ride!
The Winds and Waves are on the jufter fide.
To Winter Weather and a stormy Sea
I'll owe, what rather I would owe to thee.
Death theu deferv'st from Heav'n's avenging Laws;
But I'm unwilling to become the Caufe.
To fhun my Love, if thou wilt seek thy Fate,
'Tis a dear Purchase, and a coftly Hate.
Stay but a little, 'till the Tempest cease,
And the loud Winds are lull'd into a Peace.
May all thy Rage, like theirs, unconftant prove!
And so it will, if there be Pow'r in Love.
Know'st thou not yet what Dangers Ships sustain ?
So often wreck'd, how dar'st thou tempt the Main ?
Which were it smooth, were ev'ry Wave afleep,
Ten thousand Forms of Death are in the Deep.
In that Abyss the Gods their Vengeance ftore,
For broken Vows of those who falfely fwore.
There winged Storms on Sea-born Venus wait,
To vindicate the Juftice of her State.
Thus I to thee the Means of Safety show;
And, loft my self, would ftill preserve my Foe.
False as thou art, I not thy Death defign:
O rather live, to be the Cause of mine!
Should some avenging Storm thy Vessel tear,
(But Heav'n forbid my Words should Omen bear)
Then in thy Face thy perjur'd Vows would fly;
And my wrong'd Ghost be present to thy Eye.
With threat'ning Looks think thou behold'st me ftare,
Gafping my Mouth, and clotted all my Hair.
Then, fhou'd fork'd Lightning and red Thunder fall,
What cou'dft thou fay, but, I deserv'd 'em all ?
Left this fhou'd happen, make not haste away;
To fhun the Danger will be worth thy Stay.
Have pity on thy Son, if not on me :
My Death alone is Guilt enough for thee.
What has his Youth, what have thy Gods deferv❜d,
To fink in Seas, who were from Fires preserv'd ?
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