As thou, to purchase Troy, would'st not repeat. But Tyber now thou seek'st, to be at best, When there arrived, a poor precarious guest. Yet it deludes thy search; perhaps it will To thy old age lie undiscovered still. A ready crown and wealth in dower I bring, And, without conquering, here thou art a king. Here thou to Carthage may'st transfer thy Troy; Here young Ascanius may his arms employ; And, while we live secure in soft repose, Bring many laurels home from conquered foes. By Cupid's arrows, I adjure thee stay! By all the gods, companions of thy way! So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive, Live still, and with no future fortune strive; So may thy youthful son old age attain, And thy dead father's bones in peace remain; As thou hast pity on unhappy me, Who knew no crime, but too much love of thee. I am not born from fierce Achilles' line, Nor did my parents against Troy combine. To be thy wife if I unworthy prove, By some inferior name admit my love. To be secured of still possessing thee, What would I do, and what would I not be! Our Libyan coasts their certain seasons know, When, free from tempests, passengers may go; But now with northern blasts the billows roar, And drive the floating sea-weed to the shore. Leave to my care the time to sail away; When safe, I will not suffer thee to stay. Thy weary men would be with ease content; Their sails are tattered, and their masts are spent. If by no merit I thy mind can move, What thou deniest my merit, give my love. Stay, till I learn my loss to undergo, And give me time to struggle with my woe: If not, know this, I will not suffer long; My life's too loathsome, and my love too strong. Death holds my pen, and dictates what I say, While cross my lap the Trojan sword I lay. My tears flow down; the sharp edge cuts their flood, And drinks my sorrows, that must drink my blood. How well thy gift does with my fate agree! My funeral pomp is cheaply made by thee. To no new wounds my bosom I display; The sword but enters where love made the way. But thou, dear sister, and yet dearer friend, Shalt my cold ashes to their urn attend. Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast; I lost that title, when my fame I lost. This short inscription only let it bear; "Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here. "The cause of death, and sword by which she died, "Æneas gave; the rest her arm supplied." FOOTNOTES: [16] Dryden here misinterprets his author: _Hæc mihi narrâras, nec me movere_---- The line would have run more justly thus: This struck not, while thou told'st, my tender heart. TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES. DEDICATION PREFIXED TO THE TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID's METAMORPHOSES.