That winged Cupid to the Court shou’d come
Like sweet Ascanius, in Ascanius’ Room;
With the rich Gifts the Tyrian Queen inspire,
And kindle in her Veins the raging Fire.
Her dread of Juno’s Arts, who guards the Place,890
Her just Suspicions of the treach’rous Race,
Break, each revolving Night, her golden Rest:
And thus the suppliant Queen the God addrest.
Oh Son! my Strength, my Pow’r! who fire above
Immortal Breasts, nor dread the Bolts of Jove.895
To thee I fly, thy Succour to implore;
Court thy Protection, and thy Pow’r adore.
How haughty Juno’s restless Rage has tost
Your Brother round the Seas, and ev’ry Coast,
Is but to mention what too well you know,900
Who sigh’d my Sighs, and wept a Mother’s Woe.
Him, in her Town, the Tyrian Queen detains,
With soft Seducements, from the Latian Plains.
But
