Out of the corner of her eye she watched him During the first of this, and her gaze was turning Now here, now there; and then, in bitter silence, She looked him up and down; then blazed out at him:-- “You treacherous liar! No goddess was your mother, No Dardanus the founder of your tribe, Son of the stony mountain-crags, begotten On cruel rocks, with a tigress for a wet-nurse! Why fool myself, why make pretense? what is there To save myself for now? When I was weeping Did he so much as sigh? Did he turn his eyes, Ever so little, toward me? Did he break at all, Or weep, or give his lover a word of pity? What first, what next? Neither Jupiter nor Juno Looks at these things with any sense of fairness. Faith has no haven anywhere in the world. He was an outcast on my shore, a beggar, I took him in, and, like a fool, I gave him Part of my kingdom; his fleet was lost, I found it, His comrades dying, I brought them back to life. I am maddened, burning, burning: now Apollo The prophesying god, the oracles Of Lycia, and Jove’s herald, sent from heaven, Come flying through the air with fearful orders,-- Fine business for the gods, the kind of trouble That keeps them from their sleep. I do not hold you, I do not argue, either. Go. And follow Italy on the wind, and seek the kingdom Across the water. But if any gods Who care for decency have any power, They will land you on the rocks; I hope for vengeance, I hope to hear you calling the name of Dido Over and over, in vain. Oh, I will follow In blackest fire, and when cold death has taken Spirit from body, I will be there to haunt you, A shade, all over the world. I will have vengeance, And hear about it; the news will be my comfort In the deep world below.” She broke it off, Leaving the words unfinished; even light Was unendurable; sick at heart, she turned And left him, stammering, afraid, attempting To make some kind of answer. And her servants Support her to her room, that bower of marble, A marriage-chamber once; here they attend her, Help her lie down.
And good Aeneas, longing To ease her grief with comfort, to say something To turn her pain and hurt away, sighs often, His heart being moved by this great love, most deeply, And still--the gods give orders, he obeys them; He goes back to the fleet. And then the Trojans Bend, really, to their work, launching the vessels All down the shore. The tarred keel swims in the water, The green wood comes from the forest, the poles are lopped For oars, with leaves still on them. All are eager For flight; all over the city you see them streaming, Bustling about their business, a black line moving The way ants do when they remember winter And raid a hill of grain, to haul and store it At home, across the plain, the column moving In thin black line through grass, part of them shoving Great seeds on little shoulders, and part bossing The job, rebuking laggards, and all the pathway Hot with the stream of work.