Sidor som bilder
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Know'st thou not yet what dangers ships sustain ?
So often wreck'd, how dar'ft 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 thofe who falfely swore.
There winged storms on fea-born Venus wait,
To vindicate the justice of her state.
Thus I to thee the means of fafety show;
And, lost myself, would ftill preserve my
Falfe as thou art, I not thy death defign;
O rather live, to be the cause of mine!
Should fome avenging ftorm thy veffel tear,
(But heav'n forbid my words fhould 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,

foe.

Gasping my mouth, and clotted all my hair.
Then, fhould fork'd lightning and red thunder fall,
What couldst thou fay, but, I deferv'd 'em all?
Left this should happen, make not haste away;
To fhun the danger will be worth thy ftay.
Have pity on thy fon, 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 feas, who were from fires preferv'd?
But neither Gods nor parent didst thou bear
Smooth stories all to please a woman's ear,
False as the tale of thy romantic life.
Nor yet am I thy first-deluded wife:
Left to pursuing foes Creüfa stay'd,
By thee, base man, forfaken and betray'd.
This, when thou told'ft me, ftruck my tender heart,
That such requital follow'd fuch desert.
Nor doubt I but the Gods, for crimes like these,
Sev'n winters kept thee wand'ring on the feas,
Thy ftarv'd companions, caft afhore, I fed,
Thyfelf admitted to my crown and bed.
To harbor ftrangers, fuccor the distrest,
Was kind enough; but, oh, too kind the reft!
Curst be the cave which first my ruin brought,
Where, from the storm, we common fhelter
fought!

A dreadful howling echo'd round the place:
The mountain nymphs, thought I, my nuptials
grace.

I thought fo 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 reftore my guilty ghoft.
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
ftands,

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 fummons hears; But comes more flowly, clogg'd with conscious fears.

Forgive the wrong I offer'd to thy bed;

Strong were his charms, who my weak faith misled.
His Goddess mother, and his aged fire
Born on his back, did to my fall confpire.
Oh! fuch he was, and is, that, were he true,
Without a bluth 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 flain,
Whose wealth was made my bloody brother's gain.
Friendless, and follow'd by the murd'rer's hate,
To foreign countries I remov'd my fate;

And here, a fuppliant, from the natives hands. I bought the ground on which my city stands, With all the coaft that ftretches to the fea;

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 unfkill'd in war.
Yet thousand rivals to my love pretend;
And for my perfon would my crown defend:
Whose jarring votes in one complaint agree,
That each unjustly is difdain'd for thee.
To proud Hyarbas give me up a prey;
(For that must follow, if thou goeft away.)
Or to my husband's murd'rer leave my life,
That to the husband he may add the wife.
Go then, fince no complaints can move thy mind:
Go, perjur'd man, but leave thy Gods behind.
Touch not thofe Gods, by whom thou art forfworn,
Who will in impious hands no more be born:
Thy facrilegious worship they difdain,

And rather would the Grecian fires fuftain.

Perhaps my greatest shame is ftill to come,
And part of thee lies hid within my womb.
The babe unborn must perish by thy hate,
And perish guiltlefs in his mother's fate.

Some God, thou fay'ft, thy voyage does command; Would the fame God had barr'd thee from my land!

The fame, I doubt not, thy departure steers,
Who kept thee out at sea so many years;
While thy long labors were a price fo great,
As thou to purchase Troy would'ft not repeat.
But Tyber now thou feek'ft, to be at best,
When there arriv'd, a poor precarious gueft.
Yet it deludes thy fearch: perhaps it will
To thy old age lie undifcover'd ftill.

A ready crown and wealth in dow'r I bring,
And, without conqu'ring, here thou art a king.
Here thou to Carthage may'ft transfer thy Troy:
Here young Afcanius may his arms employ;
And, while we live fecure in foft repose,
Bring many laurels home from conquer'd foes.
By Cupid's arrows, I adjure thee ftay;
By all the Gods, companions of thy way.
So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive,
Live ftill, and with no future fortune ftrive;

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