opened breasts, consults the entrails yet quivering with
life. Alas! how blind are the eyes of seers! What can
vows, what can temples do for the madness of love? All
the while a flame is preying on the very marrow of her 15
bones, and deep in her breast a wound keeps noiselessly
alive. She is on fire, the ill-fated Dido, and in her madness
ranges the whole city through, like a doe from an
arrow-shot, whom, unguarded in the thick of the Cretan
woods, a shepherd, chasing her with his darts, has pierced 20
from a distance, and left the flying steel in the wound,