"No, faithless monster, no! Nor race divine, Nor Dardan sire, nor Goddess mother thine! Form'd in the flinty womb of rocks accurst, 455 Begot by Caucasus, by tygers nurst. What need I more? why doubt of what is plain? One sigh, one look, did all my tears obtain. How name his crimes? did loves extremest woe, Move that hard heart, or cause one tear to flow! But will Jove's Queen who guards the nuptial vow, 460 Will mighty Jove himself, such deeds allow? Whom now confide in? Cast upon my shore, Shipwreck'd, distress'd, a friendly aid I bore: Himself, his fleet, his friends, from ruin drew, Nay, foolish woman! shar'd my kingdom too, 465 Now,--my rage to very madness tends: Now Lycian fates, now Phaebus he pretends, } Nay mighty Jove himself, thro' flitting air } Sends down a god his dread command to bear. } A worthy object, truly, for his care! 470 A mighty thing, to break the God's repose! But go, such fates no longer I oppose; Go, seek Ausonia in the hollow wind, And in the frothy surge a kingdom find. Yes may you find--just Heav'n my wishes serve! 475 Dash'd on some rock, the fate that you deserve. Then, when you call on injure! Dido's name, I'll follow glaring in the light'ning's flame; When Death's cold hand this wretched soul shall free, My ghost shall haunt you, wheresoe'er you be. 480 Yes wretch--be sure--the vengeance will be paid. 'Twill reach my ear--'twill sooth my angry shade". While yet she spoke, she trembling turn'd away, Broke from his sight, and shun'd the light of day. 485 She left him struck with fear, with grief opprest; Opposing thoughts revolv'd within his breast. Her languid step her maids supporting led, And plac'd her fainting on the nuptial bed. Much as he wish'd the mourner to console, To speak soft comfort to her wounded soul, 490 To grief, to doubt, to pow'rful love a prey, Jove's sov'reign will, the hero must obey, He views the fleet, his brave companions cheers, Hauls down the bark and to the ocean veers; The sides well calk'd, the briny wave defy, 495 The living woods, their shapeless limbs supply, From the green oar the bleeding leaf they tear, They run, they toil, they press the phasing care. In gath'ring numbers from the town they pour, Wind o'er the plain, and spread along the shore 500 Like ants, that forage for a future day, 500 And to their stores the plunder'd wheat convey; In narrow columns move the sable train; These with main strength roll on the pond'rous grain; These press the march, and these the loit'rers drive; 505 They go, they come, their path seems all alive.