Who can deceive a woman in love? The queen Anticipates each move, is fearful even While everything is safe, foresees this cunning, And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor, Tells her the fleet is being armed, made ready For voyaging. She rages through the city Like a woman mad, or drunk, the way the Maenads Go howling through the night-time on Cithaeron When Bacchus’ cymbals summon with their clashing. She waits no explanation from Aeneas; She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer, You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneaking Out of my land without a word? Our love Means nothing to you, our exchange of vows, And even the death of Dido could not hold you. The season is dead of winter, and you labor Over the fleet; the northern gales are nothing-- You must be cruel, must you not? Why, even, If ancient Troy remained, and you were seeking Not unknown homes and lands, but Troy again, Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather? I am the one you flee from: true? I beg you By my own tears, and your right hand--(I have nothing Else left my wretchedness)--by the beginnings Of marriage, wedlock, what we had, if ever I served you well, if anything of mine Was ever sweet to you, I beg you, pity A falling house; if there is room for pleading As late as this, I plead, put off that purpose. You are the reason I am hated; Libyans, Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honor Is lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought me High as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest-- I must not call you husband any longer-- To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman; Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion, My brother, brings destruction to this city? Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive? At least if there had been some hope of children Before your flight, a little Aeneas playing Around my courts, to bring you back, in feature At least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”