Were I less fair, I might have been more blest:
Great beauty through great danger is possest.
To leave me here his venture was not hard,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard.
He fear'd my face, but trufted to my life,
The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife.
You bid me use th' occafion while I can,
Put in our hands by the good eafy man.
I would, and yet I doubt, 'twixt love and fear;
One draws me from you, and one brings me near.
Our flames are mutual, and my husband's gone:
The nights are long; I fear to lie alone.
One house contains us, and weak walls divide,
And you're too pressing to be long deny'd.
Let me not live, but ev'ry thing confpires
To join our loves, and yet my fear retires.
You court with words, when you should force employe
A rape is requisite to shame-fac'd joy.
Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive,
Our fex can fuffer what we dare not give.
What have I faid? for both of us 'twere best,
Our kindling fire if each of us supprest.
The faith of strangers is too prone to change,
And, like themselves, their wand'ring passions range,
Hypfipile, and the fond Minonian maid,
Were both by trusting of their guests betray'd.
How can I doubt that other men deceive,
When you yourself did fair Oenone leave?
But left I should upbraid your treachery,
You make a merit of that crime to me.
Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd,
Your weary Trojans wait but for a wind.
Should you prevail, while I affign the night,
Your fails are hoisted, and you take your flights
Some bawling mariner our love destroys,
And breaks afunder our unfinish'd joys.
But I with you may leave the Spartan port,
To view the Trojan wealth and Priam's court:
Shown while I fee, I shall expose my fame,
And fill a foreign country with my shame.
In Afia what reception shall I find?
And what dishonour leave in Grecce behind?
What will your brothers, Priam, Hecuba,
And what will all your modest matrons say?
E'en you, when on this action you reflect,
My future conduct justly may suspect;
And whate'er stranger lands upon your coaft,
Conclude me, by your own example, loft.
I from your rage a strumpet's name shall hear,
While you forget what part in it you bear.
You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid:
Deep under ground, oh, let me first be laid!
You boaft the pomp and plenty of your land,
And promife all shall be at my command:
Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I despise;
My own poor native land has dearer ties.
Should I be injur'd on your Phrygian shore,
What help of kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by Jason's flatt'ry won:
I may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honeft hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat,
And love contributes to its own deceit.
The ships, about whose sides loud tempests roar,
With gentle winds were wafted from the shore.
Your teeming mother dream'd a flaming brand,
Sprung from her womb, confum'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 you make.
Nor can I doubt, but, should I follow you,
The sword would foon our fatal crime pursue.
A wrong fo great my husband's rage would rouse,
And my 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 wife as many of my sex.
But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire;
And I perhaps may yield to your defire.
You last demand a private conference;
These are your words, but I can guess your fenfe..
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend:
Be rul'd by me, and time may be your 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 Son 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 shore of Libya, where queen Dido (flying from the cruelty of Pygmalion ber brother, who had killed her husband Sichæus) 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) he readily prepared to follow him. Dido foon perceived it, and having in vain tried all other means to engage him to stay, at last in despair writes to him as follows.
O, on Mæander's banks, when death is nigh,
The mournful fwan sings her own elegy.
Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain!)
By words your loft affection to regain:
But having loft 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 honour, and of love bereft!
While you, with loosen'd fails, and vows, prepare
To feek a land that flies the searcher's care.
Nor can my rifing tow'rs your flight restrain,
Nor my new empire, offer'd you in vain.
Built walls you shun, unbuilt you seek; that land
Is yet to conquer; but you this command.
Suppose you landed where your wish design'd,
Think what reception foreigners would find.
What people is so void of common sense,
To vote fucceffion from a native prince?
Yet there new scepters and new loves you seek;
New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
When will your tow'rs the height of Carthage know?
Or when your eyes difcern such crowds below?
If such a town and subjects you could fee,
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 purer light:
Æneas is my thoughts perpetual theme;
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream.
Yet he's ungrateful 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 canst 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 tempeft born:
Like that which now thy trembling failors 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 side.
To winter weather and a stormy fea
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 shun my love, if thou wilt seek thy fate,
'Tis a dear purchase, and a costly hate.
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