Dido, drinking draughts of love long and deep,
as she asked much about Priam, about Hector much; 35
now what were the arms in which Aurora’s son had come
to battle; now what Diomede’s steeds were like; now how
great was Achilles. “Or rather, gentle guest,” cries she,
“tell us the story from the very first—all about the stratagems
of the Danaans, and the sad fate of your country,
and your own wanderings—for this is now the seventh
summer that is wafting you a wanderer still over every
land and wave.”