And from her forehead tears her golden locks;
‘O Jove!’ she cried, ’and shall he thus delude
Me and my realm? why is he not pursued? 
Arm, arm,’ she cried, ’and let our Tyrians board
With ours his fleet, and carry fire and sword; 170
Leave nothing unattempted to destroy
That perjured race, then let us die with joy. 
What if th’event of war uncertain were? 
Nor death, nor danger, can the desp’rate fear. 
But oh, too late! this thing I should have done,
When first I placed the traitor on my throne. 
Behold the faith of him who saved from fire
His honour’d household gods, his aged sire
His pious shoulders from Troy’s flames did bear;
Why did I not his carcase piecemeal tear, 180
And cast it in the sea? why not destroy
All his companions, and beloved boy
Ascanius? and his tender limbs have dress’d,
And made the father on the son to feast? 
Thou Sun! whose lustre all things here below
Surveys; and Juno! conscious of my woe;
Revengeful Furies! and Queen Hecate! 
Receive and grant my prayer!  If he the sea
Must needs escape, and reach th’Ausonian land,
If Jove decree it, Jove’s decree must stand; 190
When landed, may he be with arms oppress’d
By his rebelling people, be distress’d
By exile from his country, be divorced
From young Ascanius’ sight, and be enforced
To implore foreign aids, and lose his friends
By violent and undeserved ends! 
When to conditions of unequal peace
He shall submit, then may he not possess
Kingdom nor life, and find his funeral 199
I’ th’sands, when he before his day shall fall! 
And ye, O Tyrians! with immortal hate
Pursue this race, this service dedicate
To my deplored ashes; let there be
’Twixt us and them no league nor amity. 
May from my bones a new Achilles rise,
That shall infest the Trojan colonies
With fire, and sword, and famine, when at length
Time to our great attempts contributes strength;
Our seas, our shores, our armies theirs oppose,
And may our children be for ever foes!’ 210
A ghastly paleness death’s approach portends,
Then trembling she the fatal pile ascends;
Viewing the Trojan relics, she unsheath’d
Aeneas’ sword, not for that use bequeath’d: 
Then on the guilty bed she gently lays
Herself, and softly thus lamenting prays;
’Dear relics! whilst that Gods and Fates give leave,
Free me from cares and my glad soul receive. 
That date which Fortune gave, I now must end,
And to the shades a noble ghost descend. 220
Sichaeus’ blood, by his false brother spilt,
I have revenged, and a proud city built;
Happy, alas! too happy, I had lived,
Had not the Trojan on my coast arrived. 
But shall I die without revenge? yet die
Thus, thus with joy to thy Sichaeus fly.