Were I lefs fair, I might have been more bleft:
Great beauty through great danger is poffeft.
To leave me here his venture was not hard,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard.
He fear'd my face, but trufted to my life,
The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife.
You bid me use th' occafion while I can,
Put in our hands by the good eafy man.

I would, and yet I doubt, 'twixt love and fear;
One draws me from you, and one brings me near.
Our flames are mutual, and my husband's gone:
The nights are long; I fear to lie alone.

One houfe contains us, and weak walls divide,
And you're too preffing to be long deny'd.
Let me not live, but ev'ry thing confpires
To join our loves, and yet my fear retires.
You court with words, when you should force employ
A rape is requifite to fhame-fac'd joy.
Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive,

Our sex can fuffer what we dare not give.
What have I faid? for both of us 'twere beft,
Our kindling fire if each of us fuppreft.

The faith of strangers is too prone to change,
And, like themselves, their wand'ring paffions range,
Hypfipile, and the fond Minonian maid,

Were both by trufting of their guests betray'd.
How can I doubt that other men deceive,
When you yourself did fair Oenone leave?
But left I fhould upbraid your treachery,
You make a merit of that crime to me.
Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd,
Your weary Trojans wait but for a wind.
Should you prevail; while I affign the night,
Your fails are hoifted, and you take your flight:
Some bawling mariner our love destroys,
And breaks afunder our unfinish'd joys.

But I with you may leave the Spartan port,
To view the Trojan wealth and Priam's court:
Shown while I fee, I fhall expofe my fame,
And fill a foreign country with my fhame.
In Afia what reception fhall I find?

And what dishonour leave in Grecce behind?
What will your brothers, Priam, Hecuba,
And what will all your modeft matrons say?
E'en you, when on this action you reflect,
My future conduct juftly may fufpect;
And whate'er ftranger lands upon your coast,
Conclude me, by your own example, loft.
I from your rage a ftrumpet's name shall hear,
While you forget what part in it you bear.
You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid:
Deep under ground, oh, let me firft be laid!
You boaft the pomp and plenty of your land,
And promise all shall be at my command:
Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I defpife;
My own poor native land has dearer ties.
Should I be injur'd on your Phrygian fhore,
What help of kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by Jafon's flatt'ry won:

I may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honeft hearts, like mine, fufpect no cheat,
And love contributes to its own deceit.

The fhips, about whofe fides loud tempests roar,
With gentle winds were wafted from the shore.
Your teeming mother dream'd a flaming brand,
Sprung from her womb, confum'd the Trojan land.
To fecond this, old prophecies conspire,
That Ilium fhall be burnt with Grecian fire,
Both give me fear; nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.

For they, who loft their cause, revenge will take;
And for one friend two enemies you make.,

Nor

Nor can I doubt, but, fhould I follow you,
The sword would foon our fatal crime pursue.
A wrong fo great my husband's rage would roufe,
And my relations would his caufe efpoufe.
You boast your strength and courage; but, alas!
Your words receive fmall credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dufty field delight,

Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector fally from the walls of Troy;
A fweeter quarrel fhould your arms employ.
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wife as many of my sex.

But time and you may bolder thoughts infpire;
And I perhaps may yield to your defire.
You laft demand a private conference;

These are your words, but I can guess your fenfe..
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend:
Be rul'd by me, and time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you understand;

For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand:
My woman knows the fecret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.

VOL. III.

DIDO

EPIST. VII.

THE ARGUMENT.

Eneas, the fon of Venus and Anchises, having, at the deftruction of Troy, faved his Gods, bis father, and fon Afcanius, from the fire, put to fea with twenty fail of fhips; and, having been long toft with tempests, was at last caft upon the shore of Libya, where queen Dido (flying from the cruelty of Pygmalion her brother, who had killed her husband Sichæus) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Æneas and his fleet with great civility, fell paffionately in love with him, and in the end denied him not the last favours. But Mercury admonishing Æneas to go in search of Italy, (a kingdom promised him by the Gods) he readily prepared to follow him. Dido foon perceived it, and having in vain tried all other means to engage him to stay, at laft in defpair writes to him as follows.

death is nigh,

The mournful fwan fings her own elegy.
Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain!)
By words your loft affection to regain:
But having loft whate'er was worth my care,
Why fhould I fear to lose a dying pray'r?
'Tis then refolv'd poor Dido must be left,
Of life, of honour, and of love bereft!

While you, with loofen'd fails, and vows, prepare
To feek a land that flies the fearcher's care.

Nor can my rifing tow'rs your flight restrain,

Nor my new empire, offer'd
Built walls you fhun, unbuilt

you in vain.

you feek; that land

Is yet to conquer; but you this command.

Suppose

Suppofe you landed where your wish defign'd,
Think what reception foreigners would find.
What people is so void of common sense,
To vote fucceffion from a native prince?
Yet there new scepters and new loves you feek;
New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
When will your tow'rs the height of Carthage know?
Or when your eyes difcern fuch crowds below?
If fuch a town and fubjects you could fee,
Still would you want a wife who lov'd like me.
For, oh, I burn, like fires with incenfe bright:
Not holy tapers flame with purer light:
Æneas is my thoughts perpetual theme;
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream.
Yet he's ungrateful and obdurate ftill:
Fool that I am to place my heart fo ill!
Myself I cannot to myself restore;
Still I complain, and ftill I love him more.
Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding heart,
And pierce thy brother's with an equal dart.
I rave: nor canft thou Venus' offspring be,
Love's mother could not bear a fon like thee.
From harden'd oak, or from a rock's cold womb,
At least thou art from fome fierce tigrefs come;
Or on rough feas, from their foundation torn,
Got by the winds, and in a tempest born:
Like that which now thy trembling failors fear;
Like that whose rage fhould ftill detain thee here.
Behold how high the foamy billows ride!
The winds and waves are on the jufter fide.
To winter weather and a ftormy fea

I'll owe, what rather I would owe to thee.
Death thou deferv'ft from heav'n's avenging laws;
But I'm unwilling to become the cause.

To fhun my love, if thou wilt seek thy fate,

'Tis a dear purchase, and a coftly hate. Q 2

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