Hath no other man left an impression,
A burning wound, that cut so deep
As the one Aeneus left on thy heart?
The sword thou fell upon, could not have compared
Even, to the mighty blow that Trojan dealt thee
Thou are the martyr of women,
From every race and culture
Thou are the saint we look to for sympathy and grace
O, Dido! Thy falter was to love,
The spring, the source of thy life's woes
How cruel and ignorant men are of a woman's frailty
Yet, how blind and vulnerable they are to her scorn
Fate left to thy own hands,
Thou threw thyself upon the pyre
What greater woman was there
Than thee, ye who found Carthage?
A city destined the Fates to be conquered,
A name blessed by the gods to be remembered!
A great race that will never be forgotten
The doomed romance, the story of thy undoing
That when thou fell, the whole sisterhood,
Of every generation to come,
Felt in their veins, your descent,
My queen, my ancestor, my blood
By your shed blood, no man will I hold close to my heart
I beseech thee for thy blessing
May I avoid what became your undoing: Love
