you? has our troth, once, plighted, none, nor she whom
you doom to a cruel death, your Dido? Nay, are you
fitting out your fleet with winter’s sky overhead, and hastening
to cross the deep in the face of all the northern winds,
hard-hearted as you are? Why, suppose you were not 30
seeking a strange clime and a home you know not—suppose
old Troy were still standing—would even Troy draw
you to seek her across a billowy sea? Flying, and from
me! By the tears I shed, and by your plighted hand,
since my own act, alas! has left me nought else to plead—by 35