arms and round his neck, gratifying the intense fondness
of the sire he feigned to be his, finds his way to the queen.
She is riveted by him—riveted, eye and heart, and ever
and anon fondles him in her lap[117]—poor Dido, unconscious 35
how great a god is sitting heavy on that wretched bosom.
But he, with his mind still bent on his Acidalian mother,
is beginning to efface the name of Sychæus letter by letter,
and endeavouring to surprise by a living passion affections
long torpid, and a heart long unused to love.
When the banquet’s first lull was come, and the board