Then cease to vex thyself and me with these complaints;
‘T is not of mine own will I fare to Italy.
Æneas, as he speaks, has become as one seeing in vision the glorious future of his race. Dido, who has stood with averted face and scornful look, now turns upon him, in a passion of grief and rage.
Dido (365-387):
Thou art no son of Venus, nor was Dardanus
The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one:
But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot,
And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why
Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait?
Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave?