_Dido._ What makes _Iarbus_ here of all the rest?

We could haue gone without your companie.

_aen._ But loue and duetie led him on perhaps, To presse beyond acceptance to your sight.

_Iar._ Why man of _Troy_, doe I offend thine eyes?

Or art thou grieude thy betters presse so nye?

_Dido._ How now Getulian, are ye growne so braue, To challenge vs with your comparisons?

Pesant, goe seeke companions like thy selfe, And meddle not with any that I loue: _aeneas_, be not moude at what he sayes, For otherwhile he will be out of ioynt.

_Iar._ Women may wrong by priuiledge of loue: But should that man of men (_Dido_ except) Haue taunted me in these opprobrious termes, I would haue either drunke his dying bloud, Or els I would haue giuen my life in gage?

_Dido._ Huntsmen, why pitch you not your toyles apace, And rowse the light foote Deere from forth their laire.

_Anna._ Sister, see see _Ascanius_ in his pompe, Bearing his huntspeare brauely in his hand.

_Dido._ Yea little sonne, are you so forward now?

_Asca._ I mother, I shall one day be a man, And better able vnto other armes, Meane time these wanton weapons serue my warre, Which I will breake betwixt a Lyons iawes.

_Dido._ What, darest thou looke a Lyon in the face?

_Asca._ I, and outface him to, doe what he can.

_Anna._ How like his father speaketh he in all?

_aen._ And mought I liue to see him sacke rich _Thebes_, And loade his speare with Grecian Princes heads, Then would I wish me with _Anchises_ Tombe, And dead to honour that hath brought me vp.

_Iar._ And might I liue to see thee shipt away, And hoyst aloft on _Neptunes_ hideous hilles, Then would I wish me in faire _Didos_ armes, And dead to scorne that hath pursued me so.

_aen._ Stoute friend _Achates_, doest thou know this wood?

_Acha._ As I remember, here you shot the Deere, That sau'd your famisht souldiers liues from death, When first you set your foote vpon the sh.o.a.re, And here we met fair _Venus_ virgine like, Bearing her bowe and quiuer at her backe.

_aen._ O how these irksome labours now delight, And ouerioy my thoughts with their escape: Who would not vndergoe all kind of toyle, To be well stor'd with such a winters tale?

_Dido._ _aeneas_, leaue these dumpes and lets away, Some to the mountaines, some vnto the soyle, You to the vallies, thou vnto the house.

_Exeunt omnes: manent._

_Iar._ I, this it is which wounds me to the death, To see a Phrigian far fet to the sea, Preferd before a man of maiestie: O loue, O hate, O cruell womens hearts, That imitate the Moone in euery chaunge, And like the Planets euer loue to raunge: What shall I doe thus wronged with disdaine?

Reuenge me on _aeneas_, or on her: On her? fond man, that were to warre gainst heauen, And with one shaft prouoke ten thousand darts: This Troians end will be thy enuies aime, Whose bloud will reconcile thee to content, And make loue drunken with thy sweete desire: But _Dido_ that now holdeth him so deare, Will dye with very tidings of his death: But time will discontinue her content, And mould her minde vnto newe fancies shapes: O G.o.d of heauen, turne the hand of fate Vnto that happie day of my delight, And then, what then? _Iarbus_ shall but loue: So doth he now, though not with equall gaine, That resteth in the riuall of thy paine, Who nere will cease to soare till he be slaine. _Exit._

_The storme. Enter aeneas and Dido in the Caue at seuerall times._

_Dido._ _aeneas._

_aen._ _Dido._

_Dido._ Tell me deare loue, how found you out this Caue?

_aen._ By chance sweete Queene, as _Mars_ and _Venus_ met.

_Dido._ Why, that was in a net, where we are loose, And yet I am not free, oh would I were.

_aen._ Why, what is it that _Dido_ may desire And not obtaine, be it in humaine power?

_Dido._ The thing that I will dye before I aske, And yet desire to haue before I dye.

_aen._ It is not ought _aeneas_ may achieue?

_Dido._ _aeneas_ no, although his eyes doe pearce.

_aen._ What, hath _Iarbus_ angred her in ought?

And will she be auenged on his life?

_Dido._ Not angred me, except in angring thee.

_aen._ Who then of all so cruell may he be, That should detaine thy eye in his defects?

_Dido._ The man that I doe eye where ere I am, Whose amorous face like _Pean_ sparkles fire, When as he buts his beames on _Floras_ bed, _Prometheus_ hath put on _Cupids_ shape, And I must perish in his burning armes: _aeneas_, O _aeneas_, quench these flames.

_aen._ What ailes my Queene, is she falne sicke of late?

_Dido._ Not sicke my loue, but sicke, I must conceale The torment, that it bootes me not reueale; And yet Ile speake, and yet Ile hold my peace, Doe shame her worst, I will disclose my griefe: _aeneas_, thou art he, what did I say?

Something it was that now I haue forgot.

_aen._ What meanes faire _Dido_ by this doubtfull speech?

_Dido._ Nay, nothing, but _aeneas_ loues me not.

_aen._ _aeneas_ thoughts dare not ascend so high As _Didos_ heart, which Monarkes might not scale.

_Dido._ It was because I sawe no King like thee, Whose golden Crowne might ballance my content: But now that I haue found what to effect, I followe one that loueth fame for me, And rather had seeme faire _Sirens_ eyes, Then to the Carthage Queene that dyes for him.

_aen._ If that your maiestie can looke so lowe, As my despised worths, that shun all praise, With this my hand I giue to you my heart, And vow by all the G.o.ds of Hospitalitie, By heauen and earth, and my faire brothers bowe, By _Paphos_, _Capys_, and the purple Sea, From whence my radiant mother did descend, And by this Sword that saued me from the Greekes, Neuer to leaue these newe vpreared walles, Whiles _Dido_ liues and rules in _Iunos_ towne, Neuer to like or loue any but her.

_Dido._ What more then delian musicke doe I heare, That calles my soule from forth his liuing seate, To moue vnto the measures of delight: Kind clowdes that sent forth such a curteous storme, As made disdaine to flye to fancies lap: Stoute loue in mine armes make thy _Italy_, Whose Crowne and kingdome rests at thy commande.

_Sicheus_, not _aeneas_ be thou calde: The King of _Carthage_, not _Anchises_ sonne: Hold, take these Iewels at thy Louers hand, These golden bracelets, and this wedding ring, Wherewith my husband woo'd me yet a maide, And be thou king of _Libia_, by my guift.

_Exeunt to the Caue._

Actus 4. Scena 1.

_Enter Achates, Ascanius, Iarbus, and Anna._