With ours his fleet, and carry fire and sword; 170 Leave nothing unattempted to destroy That perjured race, then let us die with joy. What if th'event of war uncertain were? Nor death, nor danger, can the desp'rate fear. But oh, too late! this thing I should have done, When first I placed the traitor on my throne. Behold the faith of him who saved from fire His honour'd household gods, his aged sire His pious shoulders from Troy's flames did bear; Why did I not his carcase piecemeal tear, 180 And cast it in the sea? why not destroy All his companions, and belovèd boy Ascanius? and his tender limbs have dress'd, And made the father on the son to feast? Thou Sun! whose lustre all things here below Surveys; and Juno! conscious of my woe; Revengeful Furies! and Queen Hecate! Receive and grant my prayer! If he the sea Must needs escape, and reach th'Ausonian land, If Jove decree it, Jove's decree must stand; 190 When landed, may he be with arms oppress'd By his rebelling people, be distress'd By exile from his country, be divorced From young Ascanius' sight, and be enforced To implore foreign aids, and lose his friends By violent and undeservèd ends! When to conditions of unequal peace He shall submit, then may he not possess Kingdom nor life, and find his funeral 199 I' th'sands, when he before his day shall fall! And ye, O Tyrians! with immortal hate Pursue this race, this service dedicate To my deplorèd ashes; let there be 'Twixt us and them no league nor amity. May from my bones a new Achilles rise, That shall infest the Trojan colonies With fire, and sword, and famine, when at length Time to our great attempts contributes strength; Our seas, our shores, our armies theirs oppose, And may our children be for ever foes!' 210 A ghastly paleness death's approach portends, Then trembling she the fatal pile ascends; Viewing the Trojan relics, she unsheath'd Aeneas' sword, not for that use bequeath'd: Then on the guilty bed she gently lays Herself, and softly thus lamenting prays; 'Dear relics! whilst that Gods and Fates give leave, Free me from cares and my glad soul receive. That date which Fortune gave, I now must end, And to the shades a noble ghost descend. 220 Sichæus' blood, by his false brother spilt, I have revenged, and a proud city built; Happy, alas! too happy, I had lived, Had not the Trojan on my coast arrived. But shall I die without revenge? yet die Thus, thus with joy to thy Sichæus fly. My conscious foe my funeral fire shall view From sea, and may that omen him pursue!' Her fainting hand let fall the sword besmear'd With blood, and then the mortal wound appear'd; 230 Through all the court the fright and clamours rise, Which the whole city fills with fears and cries, As loud as if her Carthage, or old Tyre The foe had enter'd, and had set on fire.