Fix'd on the deed, but doubtful of the means, After long thought, to this advice he leans:
Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair The fleet, and ship their men with silent care;Some plausible pretense he bids them find, To color what in secret he design'd.
Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose, Before the love-sick lady heard the news;And move her tender mind, by slow degrees, To suffer what the sov'reign pow'r decrees:
Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say.
They hear with pleasure, and with haste obey.
But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise:
(What arts can blind a jealous woman's eyes!)She was the first to find the secret fraud, Before the fatal news was blaz'd abroad.
Love the first motions of the lover hears, Quick to presage, and ev'n in safety fears.
Nor impious Fame was wanting to report The ships repair'd, the Trojans' thick resort, And purpose to forsake the Tyrian court.
Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound, And impotent of mind, she roves the city round.
Less wild the Bacchanalian dames appear, When, from afar, their nightly god they hear, And howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear.
At length she finds the dear perfidious man;Prevents his form'd excuse, and thus began:
"Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly, And undiscover'd scape a lover's eye?
Nor could my kindness your compassion move.
Nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love?
Or is the death of a despairing queen Not worth preventing, tho' too well foreseen?
Ev'n when the wintry winds command your stay, You dare the tempests, and defy the sea.
False as you are, suppose you were not bound To lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound;Were Troy restor'd, and Priam's happy reign, Now durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main?
See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun?
Now, by those holy vows, so late begun, By this right hand, (since I have nothing more To challenge, but the faith you gave before;)I beg you by these tears too truly shed, By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;If ever Dido, when you most were kind, Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch'd your mind;By these my pray'rs, if pray'rs may yet have place, Pity the fortunes of a falling race.