⁠Then Juno, pitying her long pain,

⁠And all that agony of death,
Sent Iris down to part in twain
⁠The clinging limbs and struggling breath.
For since she perished not by fate,
⁠Nor fell by alien stroke deserved,
But rushed on death before her date,
⁠By sudden spasm of frenzy nerved,
Not yet Proserpina had shred
The yellow ringlet from her head,
Nor stamped upon that pallid brow
The token of the powers below.
So down from Heaven fair Iris flies
⁠On saffron wings impearled with dew,
That flash against the sunlit skies
⁠Full many a varied hue;
Then stands at Dido's head, and cries:
'This lock to Dis I bear away
And free you from your load of clay:'
So shears the lock: the vital heats
Disperse, and breath in air retreats.