Ho, young men! saw you, as you came,
Any of all my sisters wand'ring here,
Having a quiver girded to her side,
And clothed in a spotted leopard's skin?
EN. I neither saw nor heard of any such; But what may I, fair virgin, call your name? Whose looks set forth no mortal form to view, Nor speech bewrays ought human in thy birth; Thou art a goddess that delud'st our eyes, And shroud'st thy beauty in this borrow'd shape; But whether thou the sun's bright sister be, Or one of chaste Diana's fellow nymphs, Live happy in the height of all content, And lighten our extremes with this one boon, As to instruct us under what good heaven We breathe as now, and what this world is call'd On which, by tempests' fury, we are cast? Tell us, O tell us, that are ignorant;
And this right hand shall make thy altars crack With mountain heaps of milk-white sacrifice.
VEN. Such honour, stranger, do I not affect;
It is the use for Tyrian maids to wear
Their bow and quiver in this modest sort,
And suit themselves in purple for the nonce,
That they may trip more lightly o'er the lawns,
And overtake the tusked boar in chase.
But for the land whereof thou dost enquire,
It is the Punick kingdom, rich and strong,
Adjoining on Agenor's stately town,
The kingly seat of Southern Lybia,
Whereat Sidonian Dido rules as queen.
But what are you that ask of me these things?
Whence may you come, or whither will you go?
EN. Of Troy am I, Æneas is my name;
Who, driv'n by war from forth my native world,
Put sails to sea to seek out Italy;
And my divine descent, from sceptr'd Jove:
With twice twelve Phrygian ships I plough'd the
deep,
And made that way my mother Venus led;
But of them all scarce seven do anchor safe,
And they so wrack'd and welter'd by the waves,
As every tide tilts 'twixt their oaken sides;
And all of them, unburthen'd of their load,
Are ballasted with billows' wat'ry weight.
But hapless I, God wot! poor and unknown,
Do trace these Lybian deserts all despis'd,
Exil'd forth Europe and wide Asia both,
And have not any coverture but heaven.
VEN. Fortune hath favour'd thee, whate'er thou be, In sending thee unto this courteous coast:
In God's name, on! and haste thee to the court,
Where Dido will receive ye with her smiles;
And for thy ships, which thou supposest lost,
Not one of them hath perish'd in the storm,
But are arriv'd safe, not far from hence;
And so I leave thee to thy fortune's lot,
Wishing good luck unto thy wand'ring steps. [Exit.
Ex. Achates, 'tis my mother that is fled;
I know her by the movings of her feet:
Stay, gentle Venus, fly not from thy son;
Too cruel! why wilt thou forsake me thus?
Or in these shades deceiv'st mine eyes so oft?
Why talk we not together hand in hand,
And tell our griefs in more familiar terms?
But thou art gone, and leav'st me here alone,
To dull the air with my discoursive moan. [Exeunt.
Enter IARBAS, followed by ILIONEUS, CLOANTHUS, and SERGESTUS.
ILIO. Follow, ye Trojans! follow this brave lord,
And 'plain to him the sum of your distress.
IAR. Why, what are you, or wherefore do you sue?
ILIO. Wretches of Troy, envied of the winds,
That crave such favour at your honour's feet,
As poor distressed misery may plead :
Save, save, O save our ships from cruel fire,
That do complain the wounds of thousand waves,
And spare our lives, whom every spite pursues.
We come not, we, to wrong your Lybian gods,
Or steal your household Lares from their shrines:
Our hands are not prepar'd to lawless spoil,
Nor armed to offend in any kind;
Such force is far from our unweapon'd thoughts,
Whose fading weal, of victory forsook,
Forbids all hope to harbour near our hearts.
IAR. But tell me, Trojans, Trojans if you be,
Unto what fruitful quarters were ye bound,
Before that Boreas buckled with your sails?
CLOAN. There is a place, Hesperia term'd by us,
An ancient empire, famoused for arms,
And fertile in fair Ceres' furrow'd wealth,
Which now we call Italia, of his name
That in such peace long time did rule the same.
Thither made we;
When, suddenly, gloomy Orion rose,
And led our ships into the shallow sands;
Whereat the southern wind, with brackish breath,
Dispers'd them all amongst the wreckful rocks;
From thence a few of us escap'd to land;
The rest, we fear, are folded in the floods.
IAR. Brave men at arms, abandon fruitless fears, Since Carthage knows to entertain distress.
SERG. Aye, but the barb'rous sort do threat our ships,
And will not let us lodge upon the sands;
In multitudes they swarm unto the shore,
And from the first earth interdict our feet,
IAR. Myself will see they shall not trouble
Your men and you shall banquet in our court,
And ev'ry Trojan be as welcome here,
As Jupiter to silly Baucis' house.
Come in with me, I'll bring you to my queen,
Who shall confirm my words with further deeds.
SERG. Thanks, gentle lord, for such unlook'd-for
Might we but once more see Eneas' face,
Then would we hope to 'quite such friendly turns,
As shall surpass the wonder of our speech. [Exeunt.
Enter ÆNEAS, ACHATES, and ASCANIUS. EN. Where am I now? these should be Carthage walls.
ACHA. Why stands my sweet Æneas thus amaz'd?
EN. O, my Achates! Theban Niobe,
Who, for her sons' death, wept out life and breath,
And, dry with grief, was turn'd into a stone,
Had not such passions in her head as I.
Methinks that town there should be Troy, yon
There Xanthus' stream, because here's Priamus,
And when I know it is not, then I die.
ACHA. And in this humour is Achates too;
I cannot choose but fall upon my knees,
And kiss his hand; O, where is Hecuba?
Here she was wont to sit, but saving air
Is nothing here; and what is this but stone?
ÆN. O, yet this stone doth make Æneas weep;
And, would my prayers (as Pygmalion's did)
Could give it life, that under his conduct.
We might sail back to Troy, and be reveng'd
On these hard-hearted Grecians, which rejoice
That nothing now is left of Priamus !
Oh, Priamus is left, and this is he:
Come, come aboard; pursue the hateful Greeks.
ACHA. What means Æneas?
EN. Achates, though mine eyes say this is stone,
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