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All but the hapless queen: to rest
She yields not, nor with eye or breast
The gentle night receives:
Her cares redouble blow on blow:
Love storms, and tossing to and fro,
With billowy passion heaves.
And thus she breathes the thoughts that roll
Tumultuous through her lonely soul:
'What shall I do? make proof once more
Of those who sought my love before,
In suppliance to the Nomads turned,
Whose proffered hand so oft I spurned?
Or shall I tread the Trojan deck,
A menial slave at each one's beck?
As though of gratitude they reck,
Or think of favours done!
Nay, though I wished, what haughty lord
Would take a humbled queen on board?
And know you not, ah wretch forlorn,
The treachery of the seed forsworn
Of false Laomedon?
Then shall I join the shouting crew
Alone, or with my Tyrians true
Attach me to their train,
And hurry those, whom scarce I tore
From Sidon's town, to tempt once more
The perils of the main?
No, die as you deserve, and heal
This anguish with the sharp sure steel.
'Twas you, my sister, first, who, swayed
By my weak tears, my peace betrayed
And gave me to the foe.
Ah! had I lived estranged from love,
Like some wild ranger of the grove,
Nor tampered with this woe,
Or kept at least the faith I vowed
To my Sychæus' funeral skroud!'