Classic Poem

But she who Love long since had swallowed down,
Melts with hid fire; her wound doth inward weep:
The man's much worth, his nation's much renown
Runs in her mind: his looks and words are deep
Fixt in her breast: care weans her eyes from sleep.
The Morn with Phoebus' lamp the earth survey'd
And drew Heav'n's veil through which moist stars did creep,
When thus to her dear sister, sick, she said,
Anna, what frightful dreams my wavering soul invade!

Who is this man that visits our abodes?
How wise! how valiant! what a face he has!
Well may he be descended from the gods.
Fear shows ignoble minds: but he, alas,
Tost with what fates! through what wars did he pass!
Were I not well resolv'd never to wed
Since my first love by death bereft me was:
Did I not loathe the nuptial torch and bed,
To this one fault perchance, perchance I might be led.

For since my poor Sychaeus' fatal hour
(Our household gods besmear'd by brother's steel)
This only man, I must confess, had power
To shake my constant faith and make it reel:
The footsteps of that ancient flame I feel.
But first earth swallow me, or, thunder-slain,
Jove nail me to the shades, pale shades of Hell,
And everlasting night, before I stain
Thee, holy chastity, or thy fair rites profane.