Thou art no son of Venus, nor was Dardanus The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one: But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot, And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait? Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave? Did he one tear let fall, o’er-mastered by my grief? Now neither Juno, mighty queen, nor father Jove Impartial sees; for faith is everywhere betrayed. That shipwrecked beggar in my folly did I take And cause to sit upon my throne; I saved his fleet, His friends I rescued—Oh, the furies drive me mad! Now ‘t is Apollo’s dictate, now the Lycian lots, And now “the very messenger of heaven sent down By Jove himself” to bring this mandate through the air! A fitting task is that for heaven’s immortal lords! Such cares as these disturb their everlasting calm! I seek not to detain nor answer thee; sail on To Italy, seek fated realms beyond the seas. For me, if pious prayers can aught avail, I pray That thou amid the wrecking reefs mayst drain the cup Of retribution to the dregs and vainly call Upon the name of Dido. Distant though I be, With fury’s torch will I pursue thee, and when death Shall free my spirit, will I haunt thee everywhere. O thou shalt meet thy punishment, perfidious one: My soul shall know, for such glad news would penetrate The lowest depths of hell.— She works herself up to a frenzy, and as she finishes she turns to leave him with queenly scorn, staggers, and falls. Her servants carry her from the scene, leaving Æneas in agony of soul, struggling between love and duty. Curtain. Act IV ACT IV. SCENE 1 Dido’s chamber as in Act II. Scene 1. Anna sits in the foreground, spinning. The old nurse, Barce, is bustling about, hanging up her mistress’ brilliant robes, which she has cast aside for her old mourning gown of simple white. Dido is seated at the latticed window watching the Trojans in the harbor below prepare for their departure. She is weeping. _Barce_, coming cautiously to Anna so that Dido may not hear (416-418): Behold, how eagerly the Trojans launch their ships. In their mad zeal they hurry timbers from the woods, Unhewn and rough, from which to shape their masts and oars, While from the city shoreward rush the fleeing men. The shouts of the sailors are heard. Dido groans. Anna, hastily putting aside her work, goes to her sister, whose face is buried in her hands. Barce takes up the spinning, stopping at times to wipe her eyes. _Dido_, lifting her face to her sister (416-418): Thou seest, Anna, how they haste from every side, And how the bustle of departure fills the shore. The vessels float, the swelling sails salute the breeze, And now the sailors crown the sterns with festive wreaths! She gives way to her tears. _Anna_, caressing her sister: