I hope that heaven’s conscience has the power

To trap you in the rocks and force your penance

Down your throat, as you call my name. I’ll send

My black flames there. When cold death draws my soul out,

My ghost will hound you. Even among dead souls

In hell, I’ll know when you are finally paying.”

In torment, she broke off and turned away,

And ran out of his sight into the palace.

And there he froze—with much he would have said.

She fainted and was lifted by her maids,

And the bed inside the marble walls received her.

Now the right-thinking hero, though he wished

To give some comfort for so great a grief,

Obeyed the gods, returning to his ships,

While he continued groaning, deeply lovesick.

The Trojans fell to work and pulled the vessels

Down from the beach in one long line. Tarred hulls

Floated. The busy crews brought leafy oars

And logs with bark still on.

That rush from everywhere in town resembled

Ants plundering a giant heap of spelt

To store at home in readiness for winter.

Over the grass the thin black phalanx goes,

Loaded with booty. Some are heaving huge grains

Forward, and some are marshaling and prodding,

So the entire pathway hums with work.

What did you feel then, Dido, when you saw?

How did you sob when all that shoreline seethed?

You looked out from your tower, and the sea

Was an industrious uproar and commotion.

Reprobate Love, wrencher of mortal hearts!

He drives her now to tears, and now to beg

And cravenly submit her pride to love—

Whatever leaves her with a hope of life.

“Anna, you see the whole shore in a tumult.

They come from everywhere. Sails draw the breeze.

Sailors in joy hang garlands on the sterns.

As surely as I saw this great grief coming,

So surely I’ll endure. But do one favor

In pity, since the traitor was your friend—

Yours only: you were trusted with his secrets;

You know how to approach him when he’s weak.

Go, sister, kneel to my proud enemy.

I was no Greek at Aulis when they swore

To smash his race. I sent no fleet to Troy,

Nor made his father’s ghost and ashes homeless.

How can he block his ears against my words?

Where is he running? As a last sad love gift,

He ought to wait for winds that make it easy.

I do not plead the marriage he betrayed.

Let the man go be king in charming Latium.

I just want time, a pause to heal my mind

And teach myself to mourn in my defeat.

I ask this final wretched favor, sister—

A loan—and I will give my death as interest.”

Weeping, she made this plea. Her grieving sister

Delivered it repeatedly. No tears

Could move him; no words found his sympathy.

His fate and Jove were barriers to his ears,