In secret they, the pleasing task pursue; But soon--(what can escape a lovers view) Soon Dido saw the change, her boding mind 365 Fancied, foresaw, or felt what they desgn'd. Trembling, alive to all she sees or hears, Suspecting ev'ry thing, she doubts, she fears, While Fame that wounded feeling never spar'd, The crews on board announced, the fleet prepar'd: 379 Till mad'ning flames within her bosom rise; Distracted, furious, o'er the town she flies, Wild as the Woodnymph when the frantic rite And Bacchanalian shout, to rage excite Madder and louder as the God invades, 375 She hears him bounding thro' the midnight shades. Dido, herself, at length, AEneas sought; Could you, false man, conceive the cruel thought, To hide a crime so great--unseen to go,-- Silent, unnotic'd--Would you leave me so? 380 Has love no charm, has plighted faith no tie? Nor Dido doom'd a cruel death to dye. And for yourself--unfeeling!--when die skies With tempest low'r--when wintry blasts arise, You tempt the dang'rous ocean--to explore 385 A distant, strange, unhospitable shore. Had Troy herself existed, who would brave For Troy herself, the treach'rous wintry wave. 'Tis me you fly--Oh, by your sacred vow, By these sad tears, (they're all that's left me now 390 To move your heart); by all our solemn ties, By what I've suffer'd, by our shortliv'd joys, If gratitude has giv'n me any right, If any charm in me once gave delight, Do not desert the wreck yourself have made, 395 Nor from my falling state withdraw your aid. If yet there's any pow'r in pray'rs like mine, Oh pity me; recal that sad design-- See Africa pow'rs, my feeble realm pursue, My Tyrians hearts are gone,--'Tis all for you, 400 To you I've sacrific'd my brightest claim, My sacred honor--all my former fame: Since the dear name of husband is forgot, Think, cruel guest, of wretched Dido's lot. What prospect in her ruin'd state remains? 405 Pygmalions vengeance--proud Iarba's chains. Of you--of all that's dear in life bereft, Oh were some pledge of mutual passion left: Some young AEneas, in whose face alone His father's dear resemblance I might own, 410 With infant grace my lonely court to cheer, Not lost, not widow'd quite I should appear".