The Tragedy of Dido Queene of Carthage. Christopher Marlowe

findes out, How neere my sweet Æneas art thou driuen?

      Æn. Hold, take this candle and goe light a fire, You shall haue leaues and windfall bowes enow Neere to these woods, to rost your meate withall: Ascanius, goe and drie thy drenched lims, Whiles I with my Achates roaue abroad, To know what coast the winde hath driuen vs on, Or whether men or beasts inhabite it.

      Acha. The ayre is pleasant, and the soyle most fit

      For Cities, and societies supports:

      Yet much I maruell that I cannot finde,

      No steps of men imprinted in the earth.

      Venus. Now is the time for me to play my part:

      Hoe yong men, saw you as you came

      Any of all my Sisters wandring here?

      Hauing a quiuer girded to her side,

      And cloathed in a spotted Leopards skin.

      Æn. I neither saw nor heard of any such:

      But what may I faire Virgin call your name?

      Whose lookes set forth no mortall forme to view,

      Nor speech bewraies ought humaine in thy birth,

      Thou art a Goddesse that delud'st our eyes,

      And shrowdes thy beautie in this borrowd shape;

      But whether thou the Sunnes bright Sister be,

      Or one of chast Dianas fellow Nimphs,

      Liue happie in the height of all content,

      And lighten our extreames with this one boone,

      As to instruct us vnder what good heauen

      We breathe as now, and what this world is calde,

      On which by tempests furie we are cast,

      Tell vs, O tell vs that are ignorant,

      And this right hand shall make thy Altars crack

      With mountaine heapes of milke white Sacrifize.

      Venus. Such honour, stranger, doe I not affect:

      It is the vse for Turen maides to weare

      Their bowe and quiuer in this modest sort,

      And suite themselues in purple for the nonce,

      That they may trip more lightly ore the lawndes,

      And ouertake the tusked Bore in chase.

      But for the land whereof thou doest enquire,

      It is the punick kingdome rich and strong,

      Adioyning on Agenors stately towne,

      The kingly seate of Southerne Libia,

      Whereas Sidonian Dido rules as Queene.

      But what are you that aske of me these things?

      Whence may you come, or whither will you goe?

      Æn. Of Troy am I, Æneas is my name,

      Who driuen by warre from forth my natiue world,

      Put sailes to sea to seeke out Italy;

      And my diuine descent from sceptred Iove,

      With twise twelue Phrigian ships I plowed the deepe,

      And made that way my mother Venus led:

      But of them all scarce seuen doe anchor safe,

      And they so wrackt and weltred by the waues,

      As euery tide tilts twixt their oken sides:

      And all of them vnburdened of their loade,

      Are ballassed with billowes watrie weight.

      But haples I, God wot, poore and vnknowne,

      Doe trace these Libian deserts all despisde,

      Exild forth Europe and wide Asia both,

      And haue not any couerture but heauen.

      Venus. Fortune hath fauord thee what ere thou be,

      In sending thee vnto this curteous Coast:

      A Gods name on and hast thee to the Court,

      Where Dido will receiue ye with her smiles:

      And for thy ships which thou supposest lost,

      Not one of them hath perisht in the storme,

      But are ariued safe not farre from hence:

      And so I leaue thee to thy fortunes lot,

      Wishing good lucke vnto thy wandring steps. Exit.

      Æn. Achates, tis my mother that is fled,

      I know her by the mouings of her feete:

      Stay gentle Venus, flye not from thy sonne,

      Too cruell, why wilt thou forsake me thus?

      Or in these shades deceiu'st mine eye so oft?

      Why talke we not together hand in hand?

      And tell our griefes in more familiar termes:

      But thou art gone and leau'st me here alone,

      To dull the ayre with my discoursiue moane. Exit.

      Enter Illioneus, and Cloanthes.

      Illio. Follow ye Troians, follow this braue Lord, And plaine to him the summe of your distresse.

      Iar. Why, what are you, or wherefore doe you sewe?

      Illio. Wretches of Troy, enuied of the windes,

      That craue such fauour at your honors feete,

      As poore distressed miserie may pleade:

      Saue, saue, O saue our ships from cruell fire,

      That doe complaine the wounds of thousand waues,

      And spare our liues whom euery spite pursues.

      We come not we to wrong your Libian Gods,

      Or steale your houshold lares from their shrines:

      Our hands are not prepar'd to lawles spoyle,

      Nor armed to offend in any kind:

      Such force is farre from our vnweaponed thoughts,

      Whose fading weale of victorie forsooke,

      Forbids all hope to harbour neere our hearts.

      Iar. But tell me Troians, Troians if you be, Vnto what fruitfull quarters were ye bound, Before that Boreas buckled with your sailes?

      Cloan. There is a place Hesperia term'd by vs,

      An ancient Empire, famoused for armes,

      And fertile in faire Ceres furrowed wealth,

      Which now we call Italia of his name,

      That in such peace long time did rule the same:

      Thither made we,

      When suddenly gloomie Orion rose,

      And led our ships into the shallow sands,

      Whereas the Southerne winde with brackish breath,

      Disperst them all amongst the wrackfull Rockes:

      From thence a fewe of vs escapt to land,

      The rest we feare are foulded in the flouds.

      Iar. Braue men at armes, abandon fruitles feares, Since Carthage knowes to entertaine distresse.

      Serg. I but the barbarous sort doe threat our ships,

      And will not let vs lodge vpon the sands:

      In