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But he, rememb'ring me, shrinks back again :
ANNA. Ah, sister, leave these idle fantasies :
Dido. Dido I am, unless I be deceiv'd; 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, But die in fury of this oversight? Aye, I must be the murd'rer of myself; No, but I am not; yet I will be straight. Anna, be glad; now have I found a mean To rid me froin these thoughts of lunacy: Not far from hence there is a woman famous'd for arts, Daughter unto the nymphs Hesperides, Who willid me sacrifice his 'ticing reliques : Go, Anna, bid my servants bring me fire. [Exit Anna.
Enter I ARBAS. lar. How long will Dido mourn a stranger's flight That hath dishonour'd her and Carthage both? How long shall I with grief consume my days, And
reap po guerdon for my truest love? Dido. Jarbas, 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.
[Erit larbas. Now, Dido, with these reliques burn thyself, And make Æneas famous through the world For perjury and slaughter of a queen. Here lies 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 bis. Here lies the garment which cloth'd him in When first he came on shore; perish thou too! These letters, lines, and perjur'd 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, fronı 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.
[She casts herself into the fire.
Enter IARBAS, running.
my sweet larbas slay himself?
THE END OF VOL. II