And have been watered at the Muses' well;
The kindly dew drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell:
But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill,
Accord not with thy Muse's merriment,
To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment;
For dead is Dido,[19] dead, alas! and drent,
Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheen:
The fairest may she was that ever went,