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The ships, about whose sides loud tempefts roas, 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 is 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


make. Nor can I doubt, but, should I follow you, The sword would soon our fatal crime pursue. A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouze,

relations would his cause espouse.
You boast your strength and courage ; but, alas!
Your words receive small credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy ;
A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ.
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wise as many


sex. But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire; And I perhaps may yield to your desire.

And my

These are

You last demand a private conference ;

your words, but I can guess your sense. Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend : Be ruld by me, and time may


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.



Æneas, the son of Venus and Anchises, having, at

the destruction of Troy, saved his Gods, his father, and fon Ascanius, from the fire, put to sea with twenty fail of ships; and, having been long tost with tempests, was at last cast upon the fore of Libya, where

queen Dido (Aying from the cruelty of Pygmalion her brother, who had killed her husband Sichaus) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Æneas and his fleet with great

civility, fell passionately in love with him, and in the end denied him not the last favours. But Mercury admonishing Æneas to go in search of Italy, (a kingdom promised him by the Gods) be readily prepared to follow him. Dido soon perceived it, and having in vain tried all other means to engage him to stay, at last in despair writes to him as follows.

on Mæander's banks, when death is nigh,

The mournful swan sings her own elegy. Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain!) By words your lost affection to regain :

you in vain.

But having lost whate'er was worth my care,
Why should I fear to lose a dying pray’r ?
'Tis then refolv'd

poor Dido must be left,
Of life, of honor, and of love bereft!

with loosen'd fails, and vows, prepare To seek a land that flies the searcher's care. Nor can my rising tow's your flight restrain, Nor my new empire, offer'd Built walls you shun, unbuilt


seek; that land Is yet to conquer ;


this command. Suppose you landed where


wish design'd, Think what reception foreigners would find. What people is so void of common sense, To vote succession from a native prince? Yet there new scepters and new loves you New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break. When will your tow'rs the height of Carthage

Or when your eyes difcern such crowds below?
If fuch a town and subjects you could see,
Still would you want a wife who lov'd like me.
For, oh, I burn, like fires with incense bright:
Not holy tapers flame with

Alame with purer light:
Æneas is my thoughts perpetual theme;
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream,


Yet he's ụngrateful and obdurate still :
Fool that I am to place my heart so ill !
Myself I cannot to myself 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 canit thou Venus' offspring be,
Love's mother could not bear a fon 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 thee here.
Behold how high the foamy billows ride!
The winds and waves are on the juster fide.
To winter weather and a stormy sea
I'll owe, what rather I would owe to thee.
Death thou deserv'st from heav’n’s avenging laws;
But I'm unwilling to become the cause.
To thun 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, unconstant prove!
And so it will, if there be pow's in love.

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