Classic Poem

He many waies his labouring thoughts revolves,
But fear o're-coming shame, at last resolves
(Instructed by the God of Thieves) to steal
Himself away, and his escape conceal.
He calls his Captains, bids them Rigg the Fleet,
That at the Port they privately should meet;
And some dissembled colour to project,
That Dido should not their design suspect;
But all in vain he did his Plot disguise:
No Art a watchful Lover can surprize.
She the first motion finds; Love though most sure,
Yet always to itself seems unsecure;
That wicked Fame which their first Love proclaim'd,
Fore-tells the end; The Queen with rage inflam'd
Thus greets him, thou dissembler would'st thou flye
Out of my arms by stealth perfidiously?
Could not the hand I plighted, nor the Love,
Nor thee the Fate of dying Dido move?
And in the depth of Winter in the night,
Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight,
To plow the raging Seas to Coasts unknown,
The Kingdom thou pretend'st to not thine own;
Were Troy restor'd, thou shouldst mistrust a wind
False as thy Vows, and as thy heart unkind.