Ori. No, not a Word. What specious forc'd Pretence
Wou'd you invent, to gild a weak Defence?
To false Æneas, when 'twas given by Fate
To tread the Paths of Death, and view the Stygian State,
Forsaken Dido was the first that stood
To strike his Eye, her Bosom bath'd in Blood
Fresh from her Wound: Pale Horror and Affright
Seiz'd the false Man, confounded at the Sight,
Trembling he gaz'd, and some faint Words he spoke,
Some Tears he shed, which, with disdainful Look,
Unmov'd she heard, and saw, nor heeded more,
Than the firm Rock, when faithless Tempests roar.
With one last Glance, his Falshood she upbraids,
Then sullenly retires, and seeks eternal Shades.
Lead me, O lead me, where the bleeding Queen,
With just Reproaches, loads perfidious Men,
Banish'd from Joy, from Empire, and from Light,
In Death involve me, and in endless Night,
But keep—that odious Objectfrom my Sight.
Enter Arcalaus.
Arcal. With her last Words she sign'd his dying Breath:
Convey him strait to Tortures and to Death.
Amad. Let me not perish with a Traitor's Name!
Naked, unarm'd, and single as I am,
Loose this right Hand, I challenge all thy Odds
Of Heav'n, or Hell, of Demons, or of Gods.
