_aen._ The sea is rough, the windes blow to the sh.o.a.re.

_Dido._ O false _aeneas_, now the sea is rough, But when you were abourd twas calme enough, Thou and _Achates_ ment to saile away.

_aen._ Hath not the Carthage Queene mine onely sonne?

Thinkes _Dido_ I will goe and leaue him here?

_Dido._ _aeneas_ pardon me, for I forgot That yong _Ascanius_ lay with me this night: Loue made me iealous, but to make amends, Weare the emperiall Crowne of _Libia_, Sway thou the Punike Scepter in my steede, And punish me _aeneas_ for this crime.

_aen._ This kisse shall be faire _Didos_ punishment.

_Dido._ O how a Crowne becomes _aeneas_ head!

Stay here _aeneas_, and commaund as King.

_aen._ How vaine am I to weare this Diadem, And beare this golden Scepter in my hand?

A Burgonet of steele, and not a Crowne, A Sword, and not a Scepter fits _aeneas_.

_Dido._ O keepe them still, and let me gaze my fill: Now lookes _aeneas_ like immortall _Ioue_, O where is _Ganimed_ to hold his cup, And _Mercury_ to flye for what he calles, Ten thousand _Cupids_ houer in the ayre, And fanne it in _aeneas_ louely face, O that the Clowdes were here wherein thou fleest, That thou and I vnseene might sport our selues: Heauens enuious of our ioyes is waxen pale, And when we whisper, then the starres fall downe, To be partakers of our honey talke.

_aen._ O _Dido_, patronesse of all our liues, When I leaue thee, death be my punishment, Swell raging seas, frowne wayward destinies, Blow windes, threaten ye Rockes and sandie shelfes, This is the harbour that _aeneas_ seekes, Lets see what tempests can anoy me now.

_Dido._ Not all the world can take thee from mine armes, _aeneas_ may commaund as many Moores, As in the Sea are little water drops: And now to make experience of my loue, Faire sister _Anna_ leade my louer forth, And seated on my Gennet, let him ride As _Didos_ husband through the punicke streetes, And will my guard with Mauritanian darts, To waite vpon him as their soueraigne Lord.

_Anna._ What if the Citizens repine thereat?

_Dido._ Those that dislike what _Dido_ giues in charge, Commaund my guard to slay for their offence: Shall vulgar pesants storme at what I doe?

The ground is mine that giues them sustenance, The ayre wherein they breathe, the water, fire, All that they haue, their lands, their goods, their liues, And I the G.o.ddesse of all these, commaund _aeneas_ ride as Carthaginian King.

_Acha._ _aeneas_ for his parentage deserues As large a kingdome as is _Libia_.

_aen._ I, and vnlesse the destinies be false, I shall be planted in as rich a land.

_Dido._ Speake of no other land, this land is thine, _Dido_ is thine, henceforth Ile call thee Lord: Doe as I bid thee, sister leade the way, And from a turret Ile behold my loue.

_aen._ Then here in me shall flourish _Priams_ race, And thou and I _Achates_, for reuenge, For _Troy_, for _Priam_, for his fiftie sonnes, Our kinsmens loues, and thousand guiltles soules, Will leade an hoste against the hatefull Greekes, And fire proude _Lacedemon_ ore their heads. _Exit._

_Dido._ Speakes not _aeneas_ like a Conqueror?

O blessed tempests that did driue him in, O happie sand that made him runne aground: Henceforth you shall be our Carthage G.o.ds: I, but it may be he will leaue my loue, And seeke a forraine land calde _Italy_: O that I had a charme to keepe the windes Within the closure of a golden ball, Or that the Tyrrhen sea were in mine armes, That he might suffer shipwracke on my breast, As oft as he attempts to hoyst vp saile: I must preuent him, wishing will not serue: Goe, bid my Nurse take yong _Ascanius_, And beare him in the countrey to her house, _aeneas_ will not goe without his sonne: Yet left he should, for I am full of feare, Bring me his oares, his tackling, and his sailes; What if I sinke his ships? O heele frowne.

Better he frowne, then I should dye for griefe: I cannot see him frowne, it may not be: Armies of foes resolu'd to winne this towne, Or impious traitors vowde to haue my life, Affright me not, onely _aeneas_ frowne Is that which terrifies poore _Didos_ heart: Nor bloudie speares appearing in the ayre, Presage the downfall of my Emperie, Nor blazing Commets threatens _Didos_ death, It is _aeneas_ frowne that ends my daies: If he forsake me not, I neuer dye, For in his lookes I see eternitie, And heele make me immortall with a kisse.

_Enter a Lord._

Your Nurse is gone with yong _Ascanius_, And heres _aeneas_ tackling, oares and sailes.

_Dido._ Are these the sailes that in despight of me, Packt with the windes to beare _aeneas_ hence?

Ile hang ye in the chamber where I lye, Driue if you can my house to _Italy_: Ile set the cas.e.m.e.nt open that the windes May enter in, and once againe conspire Against the life of me poore Carthage Queene: But though he goe, he stayes in Carthage still, And let rich Carthage fleete vpon the seas, So I may haue _aeneas_ in mine armes.

Is this the wood that grew in Carthage plaines, And would be toyling in the watrie billowes, To rob their mistresse of her Troian guest?

O cursed tree, hadst thou but wit or sense, To measure how I prize _aeneas_ loue, Thou wouldst haue leapt from out the Sailers hands, And told me that _aeneas_ ment to goe: And yet I blame thee not, thou art but wood.

The water which our Poets terme a Nimph, Why did it suffer thee to touch her breast, And shrunke not backe, knowing my loue was there?

The water is an Element, no Nimph, Why should I blame _aeneas_ for his flight?

O _Dido_, blame not him, but breake his oares, These were the instruments that launcht him forth, Theres not so much as this base tackling too, But dares to heape vp sorrowe to my heart: Was it not you that hoysed vp these sailes?

Why burst you not, and they fell in the seas?

For this will _Dido_ tye ye full of knots, And sheere ye all asunder with her hands: Now serue to chastize shipboyes for their faults, Ye shall no more offend the Carthage Queene, Now let him hang my fauours on his masts, And see if those will serue in steed of sailes: For tackling, let him take the chaines of gold, Which I bestowd vpon his followers: In steed of oares, let him vse his hands, And swim to _Italy_, Ile keepe these sure: Come beare them in. _Exit._

_Enter the Nurse with Cupid for Ascanius._

_Nurse._ My Lord _Ascanius_, ye must goe with me.

_Cupid._ Whither must I goe? Ile stay with my mother.

_Nurse._ No, thou shalt goe with me vnto my house, I haue an Orchard that hath store of plums, Browne Almonds, Seruises, ripe Figs and Dates, Dewberries, Apples, yellow Orenges, A garden where are Bee hiues full of honey, Musk-roses, and a thousand sort of flowers, And in the midst doth run a siluer streame, Where thou shalt see the red gild fishes leape, White Swannes, and many louely water fowles: Now speake _Ascanius_, will ye goe or no?

_Cupid._ Come come Ile goe, how farre hence is your house?

_Nurse._ But hereby child, we shall get thither straight.

_Cupid._ Nurse I am wearie, will you carrie me?

_Nurse._ I, so youle dwell with me and call me mother.

_Cupid._ So youle loue me, I care not if I doe.

_Nurse._ That I might liue to see this boy a man, How pretilie he laughs, goe ye wagge, Youle be a twigger when you come to age.

Say _Dido_ what she will I am not old, Ile be no more a widowe, I am young, Ile haue a husband, or els a louer.

_Cupid._ A husband and no teeth!

_Nurse._ O what meane I to haue such foolish thoughts!

Foolish is loue, a toy, O sacred loue, If there be any heauen in earth, tis loue: Especially in women of your yeares.

Blush blush for shame, why shouldst thou thinke of loue?

A graue, and not a louer fits thy age: A graue, why? I may liue a hundred yeares, Fourescore is but a girles age, loue is sweete: My vaines are withered, and my sinewes drie, Why doe I thinke of loue now I should dye?

_Cupid._ Come Nurse.

_Nurse._ Well, if he come a wooing he shall speede, O how vnwise was I to say him nay! _Exeunt._

Actus 5.

_Enter aeneas with a paper in his hand, drawing the platforme of the citie, with him Achates, Cloanthus, and Illieneus._

_aen._ Triumph my mates, our trauels are at end, Here will _aeneas_ build a statelier _Troy_, Then that which grim _Atrides_ ouerthrew: _Carthage_ shall vaunt her pettie walles no more, For I will grace them with a fairer frame, And clad her in a Chrystall liuerie, Wherein the day may euermore delight: From golden _India Ganges_ will I fetch, Whose wealthie streames may waite vpon her towers, And triple wise intrench her round about: The Sunne from Egypt shall rich odors bring, Wherewith his burning beames like labouring Bees, That loade their thighes with _Hyblas_ honeys spoyles, Shall here vnburden their exhaled sweetes, And plant our pleasant suburbes with her fumes.

_Acha._ What length or bredth shal this braue towne cotaine?

_aen._ Not past foure thousand paces at the most.