The Fates their doom decide Past hope, and bind them to this sad domain.
Dark round them rolls the sea, unlovely tide; Ninefold the waves of Styx those dreary realms divide.
LIX.

Not far off stretch the Mourning Meads, where those Whom cruel Love hath wasted with despair, In myrtle groves and alleys hide their woes, Nor Death itself relieves them of their care.
Lo, Phaedra, Procris, Eriphyle there, Baring the breast by filial hands imbrued, Evadne, and Pasiphae, and fair Laodamia in the crowd he viewed, And Caeneus, maid, then man, and now a maid renewed.
LX.

There through the wood Phoenician Dido strayed, Fresh from her wound.

Whom when AEneas knew, Scarce seen, though near, amid the doubtful shade, As one who views, or only seems to view, The clouded moon rise when the month is new, Fondly he spake, while tears were in his eye: "Ah, hapless Dido! then the news was true That thou had'st sought the bitter end.

Was I, Alas! the cause of death?
O by the starry sky, LXI.