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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.
sex. But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire; And I perhaps may yield to your desire.
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.
EPIS T. VII.
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,
poor Dido must be left,
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
Alame with purer light:
Yet he's ụngrateful and obdurate still :