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And whate'er Stranger lands upon your Coast,
Conclude me, by your own Example, loft.
I from your Rage a Strumpet's Name shall 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 shall 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 Jason's Flatt'ry won :
may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honeft Hearts, like mine, suspect no Cheat,
And Love contributes to its own Deceit.
The Ships, about whose Sides loud Tempests roar,
With gentle Winds were wafted from the Shore.
Your teeming Mother dream'd a flaming Brand,
Sprung from her Womb, consum'd the Trojan Land.
To second this, old Prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian Fire,
Both give me Fear ; nor it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our Loves to aid.
For they, who lost their Cause, Revenge will take;
And for one Friend two Enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt, but, thou'd I follow you,
The Sword would soon our fatal Crime pursue.
A Wrong so great my Husband's Rage would rouze,
And my Relacions would his Cause espouse.
You boaft your Strength and Courage; but, alas !
Your Words receive small Credit from
Let Heroes in the dufty Field delight,
Those Limbs were fashion'd for another Fight.
Bid Hector fally from the Walls of Troy;
A sweeter Quarrel should your Arms employ.
Yet Fears like these fou'd not my Mind perplex,
Were I as Wise as many
But Time and you may bolder Thoughts inspire ;
And I perhaps may yield to your Desire.
You last demand a private Conference ;
These are your Words, but I can guess your Sense.
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.
DIDO to ÆNE A S.
EPIS T. vii.
The ARGUMENT. Æneas, the Son of Venus and Anchises, having, at the
Deftruction of Troy, saved his Gods, his Father, and Son Ascanius, from the Fire, put to Sea with twenty Sail of Ships; and, having been long 101 with Tempels, was at last caft upon the shore of Libya, where Queen Dido (Aying 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 pallonately in Love with him, and in the End denied him not the lap Fa•
But Mercury admonishing Æneas to go in search of Italy, (a Kingdom promised him by the Gods) be readily prepared to obey him. Dido soon perceived it, and having in vain try'd all other Means to engage him to say, at last in Depair writes to him as follows.
O, on Meander's Banks, when Death is nigh,
Not that I hope (for, oh, that Hope were vain!)
By Words your loft Affection to regain :
But having lost whate'er was worth my Care,
Why should I fear to lose a dying Pray’r ?
'Tis then resolv'd poor Dido must be left,
Of Life, of Honour, and of Love bereft!
with loosen'd Sails, and Vows, prepare
To seek a Land that flies the Searcher's Care.
Nor can my rising Tow'rs your Flight restrain,
Nor my new Empire, offer'd you in vain.
Built Walls you fhun, unbuilt you seek; that Land
Is yet to conquer ; but you this command.
Suppose you landed where your Wish design'd,
Think what Reception Foreigners would find.
What People is so void of common Sense,
To vote Succeflion 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 discern such Crowds below?
If such a Town and Subjects you cou'd see,
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 :
Æneas 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 self 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 canst 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 some fierce Tigress 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 whose Rage should still detain chee 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 chec.
Death theu deserv'ft from Heay’n’s avenging Laws;
But I'm unwilling to become the Cause.
To shun my Love, if thou wilt seek thy Fate,
'Tis a dear Purchase, and a costly 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'lt thou tempt the Main ?
Which were it smooth, were ev'ry Wave asleep,
Ten thousand Forms of Death are in the Deep.
In that Abyss the Gods their Vengeance store,
For broken Vows of those who falsely swore.
There winged Storms on Sea-born Venus wait,
To vindicate the Justice of her State.
Thus I to thee the Means of Safety show ;
And, loft my self, would still preserve my Foe.
False as thou art, I not thy Death design ;
O rather live, to be the Cause of mine !
Should come avenging Storm thy Vefsel 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,
Gasping my Mouth, and clotted all my Hair.
Then, thou'd fork'd Lightning and red Thunder fall,
What cou'dft thou say, but, I deserv'd 'em all ?
Lest this shou'd happen, make not hafte away ;
To Thun 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 defervid,
To fink in Seas, who were from Fires presery'd ?