But the queen finds no rest. Deep in her veins The wound is fed; she burns with hidden fire. His manhood, and the glory of his race Are an obsession with her, like his voice, Gesture and countenance. On the next morning, After a restless night, she sought her sister: “I am troubled, Anna, doubtful, terrified, Or am I dreaming? What new guest is this Come to our shores? How well he talks, how brave He seems in heart and action! I suppose It must be true; he does come from the gods. Fear proves a bastard spirit. He has been So buffeted by fate. What endless wars He told of! Sister, I must tell you something: Were not my mind made up, once and for all, Never again to marry, having been So lost when Sychaeus left me for the grave, Slain by my murderous brother at the altar, Were I not sick forever of the torch And bridal bed, here is the only man Who has moved my spirit, shaken my weak will. I might have yielded to him. I recognize The marks of an old fire. But I pray, rather, That earth engulf me, lightning strike me down To the pale shades and everlasting night Before I break the laws of decency. My love has gone with Sychaeus; let him keep it, Keep it with him forever in the grave.” She ended with a burst of tears. “Dear sister, Dearer than life,” Anna replied, “why must you Grieve all your youth away in loneliness, Not know sweet children, or the joys of love? Is that what dust demands, and buried shadows? So be it. You have kept your resolution From Tyre to Libya, proved it by denying Iarbas and a thousand other suitors From Africa’s rich kingdoms. Think a little. Whose lands are these you settle in? Getulians, Invincible in war, the wild Numidians, Unfriendly Syrtes, ring us round, and a desert Barren with drought, and the Barcaean rangers. Why should I mention Tyre, and wars arising Out of Pygmalion’s threats? And you, my sister, Why should you fight against a pleasing passion? I think the gods have willed it so, and Juno Has helped to bring the Trojan ships to Carthage. What a great city, sister, what a kingdom This might become, rising on such a marriage! Carthage and Troy together in arms, what glory Might not be ours? Only invoke the blessing Of the great gods, make sacrifice, be lavish In welcome, keep them here while the fierce winter Rages at sea, and cloud and sky are stormy, And ships still wrecked and broken.”