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But neither Gods nor Parent didft thou bear ;
Smooth Stories all to please a Woman's Ear,
False as the Tale of thy Romantick Life.
Nor yet am I thy first-deluded Wife :
Left to pursuing Foes Creüfa ftay'd,
By thee, base Man, forsaken and betray'd.
This, when thou told'ft
tender Heart, That such Requital follow'd such Desert. Nor doubt I but the Gods, for Crimes like these, Sev'n Winters kept thee wand'ring on the Seas. Thy starv'd Companions, cast ashore, I fed, Thy self admitted to my Crown and Bed. To harbour Strangers, succour the Distrest, Was kind enough ; but, oh, too kind the rest! Curst be the Cave which first my Ruin brought, Where, from the Storm, we common Shelter fought ! A dreadful Howling echo'd round the Place: The Mountain Nymphs, thought I, my Nuptials grace. I thought so then, but now too late I know The Furies yell’d my Fun'rals from below. O Chastity and violated Fame, Exact
your Dues to my dead Husband's Name! By Death redeem my Reputation loft, And to his Arms restore my guilty Ghost. Close by my Palace, in a gloomy Grove, Is rais'd a Chapel to my murder'd Love ; There, wreath'd with Boughs and Wool, his Statue stands, The pious Monument of Artful Hands. Last Night, methought, he call'd me from the Dome, And thrice, with hollow Voice, cry'd, Dido, come. She comes; thy Wife thy lawful Summons hears; But comes more slowly, clogg'd with conscious Fears. Forgive the Wrong I offer'd to thy Bed ; Strong were his Charms, who my weak Faith mis-led.
His Goddess Mother, and his Aged Sire
Born on his Back, did to my Fall conspire.
O! such he was, and is, that, were he true,
Without a Blush I might his Love pursue.
But cruel Stars my Birth-day did attend
And as my Fortune open'd, it must end.
My plighted Lord was at the Altar fain,
Whose Wealth was made my bloody Brother's Gain,
Friendless, and follow'd by the Murd'rer's Hate,
To foreign countries I remoy'd my Fate ;
And here, a Suppliant, from the Natives Hands
I bought the Ground on which my City stands,
With all the Coast that stretches to the Sea ;
E’en to the friendly Port that shelter'd thee :
Then rais'd these Walls, which mount into the Air,
At once my Neighbours Wonder, and their fear.
For now they arm; and round me Leagues are made,
My scarce establish'd Empire to invade.
To man my new-built Walls I must prepare,
An helpless Woman, and unskill'd in War.
Yet thousand Rivals to my Love pretend ;
And for my Person wou'd my Crown defend :
Whose jarring Votes in one Complaint agree,
That each unjustly is disdain'd for thee.
To proud Hyarbas give me up a Prey ;
(For that must follow, if thou goeit away:)
Or to my Husband's Murd'rer leave
That to the Husband he may add the Wife.
Go then, since no Complaints can move thy Mind:
Go, perjur'd Man, but leave thy Gods behind.
Touch not those Gods, by whom thou art forsworn,
Who will in impious Hands no more be born :
c Thy Sacrilegious Worship they disdain, And rather wou'd the Grecian Fires sustain.
Perhaps my greatest Shame is still to come,
And part of thee lies hid within
The Babe unborn muft perish by thy Hate,
And perish guiltless in his Mother's Fate.
Some God, thou say'st, thy Voyage does command;
Wou'd the same God had barr'd thee from Land !
The same, I doubt not, thy Departure steers,
Who kept thee out at Sea so many
While thy long Labours were a Price so great,
As thou to purchase Troy would't not repeat.
But Tyber 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 may'st transfer thy Troy :
Here young Afcanius may his Arms employ;
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 haft pity on unhappy me,
Who knew no Crime, but too much Love of thee.
I am not born from 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 ftill possessing thee,
What wou'd I do, and what wou'd I not be !
Our Libyan Coasts their certain Seasons know,
When free from Tempefts Passengers may go :
But now with Northern Blasts the Billows roar,
And drive the floating Sea-Weed to the Shore.
Leave to my Care the Time to fail away ;
When fafe, I will not suffer thee to ftay.
Thy weary Men wou'd be with Ease content ;
Their Sails are tatter'd, and their Mafts 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,
My Tears flow down ; the sharp edge cuts their Flood,
And drinks my Sorrows that muft drink my
How well thy Gift does, with my Fate agree !
My Fun'ral Pomp is cheaply made by thee.
To no new Wounds my Bosom I display :
The Sword but enters where Love made the Way,
But thou, dear Sister, and yet dearer Friend,
cold Ales to their Urn attend. Sichæus' Wife let not the Marble boast, I lost that Title, when my Fame I loft. This short Inscription only let it bear : “ Unhappy Dido lies in Quiet here. " The Cause of Death, and Sword by which she dy'd, " Æneas gave: The reft her Arm supply'd.
From O VID'S AMOURS,
Book i. Eleg. 1.
OR mighty Wars I thought to tune my Lute,
And make my Measures to my Subject suit. Six Feet for ev'ry Verse the Muse design di But Cupid, laughing, when he saw my Mind, From ev'ry second Verse a Foot purloin'd. Who gave thee, Boy, this arbitrary fway, On Subjects, not thy own, Commands to lay, Who Phæbus only and his Laws obey ? 'Tis more absurd than if the Queen of Love Shou'd in Minerva's Arms to Battle move ; Or manly Pallas from that Queen shou'd take Her Torch, and o'er the dying Lover shake. In Fields as well may Cynthia fow the Corn, Or Ceres wind in Woods the Bugle-horn. As well may Phæbus quit the trembling String, For sword and Shield; and Mars may learn to sing. Already thy Dominions are too large ; Be not ambitious of a foreign Charge. If thou wilt reign o'er all, and ev'ry where, The God of Musick for his Harp may fear. Thus when with soaring Wings I seek Renown, Thou pluck'it my Pinions, and I Autter down. Cou'd I on such mean Thoughts my Muse employ, I want a Mistress or a blooming Boy. Thus I complain'd : His Bow the Stripling bent, And chose an Arrow fit for his intent. The Shaft his purpose fatally pursues ; Now, Poet, there's a Subject for thy Muse. He said : Too well, alas, he knows his Trade ; For in my Breast a mortal Wound he made.