Death kills it not; for a multitude haunt
The bowers, melancholy music chant.
With Procris, Laodamia, the rest,
The wound, unhealed, still bleeding in her breast,
Tyrian Dido roamed in a great wood.
Æneas in the leafy twilight stood,
Uncertain; as, at the month’s dawn, we doubt
If it be moon, or cloud flitting about.
Soon recognition, love; and, with them both,
Tears, shame, remembrance of his plighted troth: