Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/83

 Thro' every street she flies, with anguish stung, And broken accents flutter on her tongue, Her words confus'd, and interrupted flow; Speak and express the hurry of her woe. Ah! How is Dido, is that Dido lost, Who late receiv'd the Trojans on her coast, And badbade [sic] them banish grief, and share her throne, Dismiss their fears, and think her realms their own?


 * the great orators consult, and thence

Draw all the moving turns of eloquence; That Sinon may his Phrygian foes betray, And lead the crowd, as fraud directs the way; That wise Ulysses may the Greeks detain, While Troy yet stood, from meas'ring back the main; Need I name Nestor, who could talk to peace, With melting words, the factious kings of Greece; Whose soft address their fury could controul, Mould every passion, and subdue the soul! These