Dido. Hast thou forgot how many neighbour kings

Were up in arms, for making thee my love?
How Carthage did rebel, Iarbas storm,
And all the world called me a second Helen,
For being entangled by a stranger's looks;
So thou would'st prove as true as Paris did,
Would, as fair Troy was, Carthage might
be sacked,

And I be called a second Helena.
Had I a son by thee the grief were less,
That I might see Æneas in his face:
Now if thou goest, what can'st thou leave
behind,

But rather will augment than ease my woe? En. In vain, my love, thou spend'st thy fainting breath;

If words might move me, I were overcome.
Dido. And wilt thou not be moved with
Dido's words?

Thy mother was no goddess, perjured man!
Nor Dardanus the author of thy stock;
But thou art sprung from Scythian Cau-

casus,

And tigers of Hyrcania gave thee suck.
Ah, foolish Dido, to forbear this long!
Wast thou not wrecked upon this Libyan
shore,

And cam'st to Dido like a fisher swain?
Repaired not I thy ships, made thee a king,
And all thy needy followers noblemen?
O serpent! that came creeping from the
shore,

And I for pity harboured in my bosom, Wilt thou now slay me with thy venomed sting,

And hiss at Dido for preserving thee?
Go, go, and spare not; seek out Italy:

I hope, that that which love forbids me do, The rocks and sea-gulls will perform at large,

And thou shalt perish in the billows' ways,
To whom poor Dido doth bequeath revenge:
Aye, traitor! and the waves shall cast thee
up,

Where thou and false Achates first set foot;
Which, if it chance, I'll give ye burial,
And weep upon your lifeless carcases,
Though thou nor he will pity me a whit.
Why star'st thou in my face? If thou wilt
stay,

Leap in mine arms; mine arms are open wide;

If not, turn from me, and I'll turn from thee:

For though thou hast the heart to say farewell,

have not power to stay thee.-[Exit Æneas.] Is he gone?

Aye, but he'll come again; he cannot go;
He loves me too, too well to serve me so:
Yet he, that in my sight would not relent,
Will, being absent, be obdurate still?
By this is he got to the water-side;
And see, the sailors take him by the hand;
But he shrinks back; and now, remember-
ing me,

Returns amain: welcome, welcome, my love!

But where's Æneas? Ah! he's gone! he's gone!

Enter Anna.

Anna. What means my sister, thus to rave and cry!

Dido. O Anna! my Æneas is aboard, And leaving me, will sail to Italy. Once did'st thou go, and he came back again;

Now bring him back, and thou shalt be a queen,

And I will live a private life with him.

Anna. Wicked Æneas!

Dido. Call him not wicked, sister; speak
him fair,

And look upon him with a mermaid's eye.
Tell him, I never vowed at Aulis' gulf
The desolation of his native Troy,
Nor sent a thousand ships unto the walls,
Nor ever violated faith to him;
Request him gently, Anna, to return:
I crave but this, he stay a tide or two,
That I may learn to bear it patiently:
If he depart thus suddenly, I die.
Run, Anna, run! stay not to answer me.
Anna. I go, fair sister; heavens grant
good success !
[Exii.

Enter the Nurse.

Nurse. O Dido! your little son Ascanius Is gone! He lay with me last night, And in the morning he was stolen from me: I think, some fairies have beguiled me.

Dido. O cursed hag! and false dissembling wretch !

That slay'st me with thy harsh and hellish tale,

Thou, for some petty gift, hast let him go,
And I am thus deluded of my boy:
Away with her to prison presently!
Traitress too kenn'd! and cursed sorceress !
Nurse. I know not what you mean by
treason, I,

Re-enter Anna.

Anna. Before I came, Æneas was aboard,

And spying me, hoised up the sails amain; But I cried out, "Eneas! false Æneas! stay!"

Then 'gan he wag his hand, which, yet held up,

Made me suppose he would have heard me speak;

Then 'gan they drive into the ocean; Which, when I viewed, I cried, "Æneas, stay!

Dido, fair Dido wills Æneas' stay!"

Yet he, whose heart's of adamant or flint, My tears nor plaints couid mollify a whit. Then carelessly I rent my hair for grief; Which seen to all, though he beheld me not,

They 'gan to move him to redress my ruth,
And stay awhile to hear what I could say;
But he, clapped under hatches, sailed away.
Dido. O Anna! Anna! I will follow him.
Anna. How can ye go, when he hath all
your fleet?

Dido. I'll frame me wings of wax, like
Icarus,

And, o'er his ship, will soar unto the sun,
That they may melt, and I fall in his arms;
Or else, I'll make a prayer unto the waves,
That I may swim to him, like Triton's
niece :

O Anna! Anna! fetch Arion's harp,
That I may tice a dolphin to the shore,
And ride upon his back unto my love!
Look, sister, look! lovely Æneas' ships;
See! see the billows heave them up to
heaven,

And now down fall the keels into the deep:
O sister, sister, take away the rocks;
They'll break his ships. O Proteus! Nep-
tune! Jove!

Save, save Æneas; Dido's liefest love! Now he is come on shore safe, without hurt;

But, see! Achates wills him put to sea,
And all the sailors merry make for joy;
But he, remembering me, shrinks back again:
See where he comes; welcome! welcome,
my love!

Anna. Ah, sister, leave these idle fanta-
sies:

Sweet sister! cease; remember who you are.
Dido. Dido I am, unless I be deceived;
And must I rave thus for a runagate?
Must I make ships for him to sail away?
Nothing can bear me to him but a ship,
And he hath all my fleet. What shall I do,

And reap no guerdon for my truest love?

Dido. Iarbas, talk not of Æneas; let him
go;

Lay to thy hands, and help me make a fire,
That shall consume all that this stranger left;
For I intend a private sacrifice,
To cure my mind, that melts for unkind love.
Iar. But, afterwards, will Dido grant me
love?

Dido. Aye, aye, Iarbas, after this is done, None in the world shall have my love but thou; [They make a fire.

So, leave me now; let none approach this
place.
[Exit Iarbas.
Now, Dido, with these reliques burn thyself,
And make Æneas famous through the
world

For perjury and slaughter of a queen.
Here lie the sword that in the darksome cave
He drew, and swore by, to be true to me:
Thou shalt burn first; thy crime is worse
than his.

Here lie the garment which I clothed him in When first he came on shore; perish thou too!

These letters, lines, and perjured papers, all Shall burn to cinders in this precious flame. And now, ye gods, that guide the starry frame,

And order all things at your high dispose, Grant, though the traitors land in Italy, They may be still tormented with unrest ; And, from mine ashes, let a conqueror rise, That may revenge this treason to a queen, By ploughing up his countries with the sword.

Betwixt this land and that be never league, Littora littoribus contraria, fluctibus undas Imprecor: arma armis: pugnent ipsique nepotes:

Live, false Æneas! truest Dido dies! Sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras.

Enter Anna.

Anna. O help, Iarbas! Dido, in these flames,

Hath burnt herself! ah me! unhappy me!

Enter Iarbas, running.

Iar. Cursed Iarbas! die to expiate The grief that tires upon thine inward soul: Dido, I come to thee. Ah me, Æneas! [Kills himself.

love!

O sweet Iarbas! Anna's sole delight;
What fatal destiny envies me thus,
To see my sweet Iarbas slay himself?
But Anna now shall honour thee in death,
And mix her blood with thine; this shall I
do,

That gods and men may pity this my death,

And rue our ends, senseless of life or breath:

Now, sweet Iarbas, stay! I come to thee. [Kills herself.

Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,

When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;

And there for honey bees have sought in vain, And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.

About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.

She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight To play upon those hands, they were so white.

Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she, And branched with blushing coral to the knee;

Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold,

Such as the world would wonder to behold: Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,

Which, as she went, would cherup through the bills.

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined, And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.

But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rock, there took his

rest.

So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun,

As Nature wept, thinking she was undone, Because she took more from her than she left,

And of such wondrous beauty her bereft : Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,

Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young, (Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung,) Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there

none

For whom succeeding times make greater

moan.

His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, Would have allured the venturous youth of Greece

To hazard more than for the golden fleece. Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her sphere;

Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.

His body was as straight as Circe's wand; Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.

Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell
ye,

How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;

And whose immortal fingers did imprint That heavenly path with many a curious dint,

That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men
Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leapt into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
Enamoured of his beauty had he been:
His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;
The barbarous Thracian soldier, moved with
naught,

Was moved with him, and for his favour sought.

Some swore he was a maid in man's attire, For in his looks were all that men desire,A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye, A brow for love to banquet royally; And such as knew he was a man would say, "Leander, thou art made for amorous play:

Why art thou not in love, and loved of all? Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall."

The men of wealthy Sestos every year, For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,

Rose-cheeked Adonis, kept a solemn feast; Thither resorted many a wandering guest To meet their loves: such as had none at all

Came lovers home from this great festival; For every street, like to a firmament, Glistered with breathing stars, who, where they went,

Frighted the melancholy earth, which

deemed

Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed,
As if another Phaeton had got
The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.
But, far above the loveliest, Hero shined,
And stole away the enchanted gazer's mind;
For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony,