y
speaks:

'No goddess was thy mother, nor Dardanus founder of thy line, traitor!
but rough Caucasus bore thee on his iron crags, and Hyrcanian tigresses
gave thee suck. For why do I conceal it? For what further outrage do I
wait? [369-400]Hath our weeping cost him a sigh, or a lowered glance?
Hath he broken into tears, or had pity on his lover? Where, where shall
I begin? Now neither doth Queen Juno nor our Saturnian lord regard us
with righteous eyes. Nowhere is trust safe. Cast ashore and destitute I
welcomed him, and madly gave him place and portion in my kingdom; I
found him his lost fleet and drew his crews from death. Alas, the fire
of madness speeds me on. Now prophetic Apollo, now oracles of Lycia, now
the very gods' interpreter sent straight from Jove through the air
carries these rude commands! Truly that is work for the gods, that a
care to vex their peace! I detain thee not, nor gainsay thy words: go,
follow thine Italy down the wind; seek thy realm overseas. Yet midway my
hope is, if righteous gods can do aught at all, thou wilt drain the cup
of vengeance on the rocks, and re-echo calls on Dido's name. In murky
fires I will follow far away, and when chill death hath severed body
from soul, my ghost will haunt thee in every region. Wretch, thou shalt
repay! I will hear; and the rumour of it shall reach me deep in the
under world.'

Even on these words she breaks off her speech unfinished, and, sick at
heart, escapes out of the air and sweeps round and away out of sight,
leaving him in fear and much hesitance, and with much on his mind to
say. Her women catch her in their arms, and carry her swooning to her
marble chamber and lay her on her bed.

But good Aeneas, though he would fain soothe and comfort her grief, and
talk away her distress, with many a sigh, and melted in soul by his
great love, yet fulfils the divine commands and returns to his fleet.
Then indeed the Teucrians set to work, and haul down their tall ships
all along the shore. The hulls are oiled and afloat; they carry from the
woodland green boughs for oars and massy logs unhewn, in hot haste to
go. . . . One might descry them shifting [401-433]their quarters and
pouring out of all the town: even as ants, mindful of winter, plunder a
great heap of wheat and store it in their house; a black column advances
on the plain as they carry home their spoil on a narrow track through
the grass. Some shove and strain with their shoulders at big grain