’Most any town will do to dodge a flat;
Aeneas felt that he could love that spot,
Where’er it be—so be Dido was not.
Dido, deserted, built a funeral pyre,
On which she mounted with a wicked knife;
She bade a servant set the thing afire,
And with the dagger put an end to life.
So perished Dido; died, oh died for love!
So Dido died, as I have said above,
Sweet Dido, loveliest lady of the land,