our union—by the nuptial rites thus prefaced—if
I have ever deserved well of you, or aught of mine ever
gave you pleasure—have pity on a falling house, and strip
off, I conjure you, if prayer be not too late, the mind that
clothes you. It is owing to you that the Libyan tribes and
the Nomad chiefs hate me, that my own Tyrians are estranged;
owing to you, yes, you, that my woman’s honour
has been put out, and that which was my one passport 5
to immortality, my former fame. To whom are you abandoning
a dying woman, my guest?—since the name of