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So may thy youthful son old
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,
flood, And drinks
my sorrows that must drink my blood. How well thy gift does with my fate agree! My fun'ral pomp is cheaply made by thee. To no new wounds
bosom I display: The sword but enters where love made the way, But thou, dear sister, and yet dearer friend, Shalt my
cold ashes to their urn attend. Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast, I lost that title, when my
fame I lost. This short inscription only let it bear :
Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here. “ The cause of death, and sword by which shedy'd, “ Æneas gave: the rest her arm supply'd.”.