Delphi Complete Works of Christopher Marlowe (Illustrated) E-Book

Christopher Marlowe

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Series Two
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 2588

Beschreibung

Marlowe was an enigmatic character – part poet, scholar, soldier, spy and tavern brawler – and his legend continues to elude historians. This eBook provides readers with a new and erudite edition of Marlowe’s works, offering every play, poem, translation and much more. Now you can truly own all of Marlowe’s works and a range of BONUS material on your eReader, and all in one well-organised file. (Current version: 4)

* concise introductions to the plays and other works
* ALL the plays, each with its own contents table – navigate easily between acts and scenes – find that special quotation quickly!
* even includes the apocryphal play LUST’S DOMINION, available nowhere else
* contains both versions (A & B) of DOCTOR FAUSTUS
* ALL the poetry, with excellent formatting
* beautiful images relating to Marlowe’s life, locations and works
* EVEN includes the SOURCES for some of the plays, allowing you to explore Marlowe’s inspiration
* INCLUDES no less than 4 biographies – explore the playwright’s mysterious life from multiple sources across history
* the SPECIAL literary criticism section boasts four works that examine Marlowe’s contribution to literature
* scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
* includes a front MASTER table of contents, allowing easy navigation around Marlowe’s immense oeuvre
* features a special ‘Glossary of Elizabethan Language’, which will aid your comprehension of difficult words and phrases

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CONTENTS:

The Plays
DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE
THE SOURCE TEXT OF DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE
TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT PART 1
TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT PART 2
THE JEW OF MALTA
DOCTOR FAUSTUS (A TEXT)
DOCTOR FAUSTUS (B TEXT)
EDWARD II
THE SOURCE TEXT OF EDWARD II
THE MASSACRE AT PARIS

The Apocryphal Play
LUST’S DOMINION

The Poetry
TRANSLATION OF BOOK ONE OF LUCAN’S THE PHARSALIA
TRANSLATION OF OVID’S ELEGIES
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
THE NYMPH’S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH
HERO AND LEANDER
FRAGMENT
IN OBITUM HONORATISSIMI VIRI, ROGERI MANWOOD etc.
DIALOGUE IN VERSE
EPIGRAMS BY J.D.

The Criticism
EXTRACTS FROM ‘THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’ BY SIDNEY LEE
THE INFLUENCE OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE ON SHAKSPERE’S BY A. W. VERITY
EXTRACT FROM ‘A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE’ BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
SOME NOTES ON THE BLANK VERSE OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE BY T.S. ELIOT

The Biographies
MARLOWE AND HIS ASSOCIATES BY JOHN H. INGRAM
THE MUSES’ DARLING BY CHARLES NORMAN
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE BY J. G. LEWIS
THE DEATH OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE BY J. LESLIE HOTSON

GLOSSARY OF ELIZABETHAN LANGUAGE

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Leseprobe

The Complete Works of

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

(1564-1593)

Contents

The Plays

DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE

THE SOURCE TEXT OF Dido, Queen of Carthage

TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT PART 1

TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT PART 2

THE JEW OF MALTA

DOCTOR FAUSTUS (A TEXT)

DOCTOR FAUSTUS (B TEXT)

EDWARD II

THE SOURCE TEXT OF Edward II

THE MASSACRE AT PARIS

The Apocryphal Play

LUST’S DOMINION

The Poetry

TRANSLATION OF BOOK ONE OF LUCAN’S The Pharsalia

TRANSLATION OF OVID’S ELEGIES

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

THE NYMPH’S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD by Sir Walter Raleigh

HERO AND LEANDER

FRAGMENT

IN OBITUM HONORATISSIMI VIRI, ROGERI MANWOOD, MILITIS, QUÆSTORII REGI- NALIS CAPITALIS BARONIS

DIALOGUE IN VERSE

EPIGRAMS BY J.D.

The Criticism

EXTRACTS FROM ‘THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’ By Sidney Lee

THE INFLUENCE OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE ON SHAKSPERE’S EARLIER STYLE By A. W. Verity

EXTRACT FROM ‘A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE’ By Algernon Charles Swinburne

SOME NOTES ON THE BLANK VERSE OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE By T.S. Eliot

The Biographies

MARLOWE AND HIS ASSOCIATES By John H. Ingram

THE MUSES’ DARLING By Charles Norman

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE - OUTLINES OF HIS LIFE AND WORKS by J. G. Lewis

THE DEATH OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE by J. Leslie Hotson

Glossary of Elizabethan Language

© Delphi Classics 2015

Version 5

The Complete Works of

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

By Delphi Classics, 2015

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The Plays

The Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury, the city where Marlowe was born

DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE

This short play, with possible contributions by Thomas Nashe, tells the story of the classical Dido, the Queen of Carthage and her fanatical love for Aeneas.  No other play by Marlowe boasts such a strong female lead character, as the rest of his plays tend to concentrate upon masculine struggles.  Marlowe relied heavily on the Roman poet Virgil’s Books 1, 2, and 4 of The Aeneid as the main source of the drama. 

First published in 1594 by the bookseller Thomas Woodcock, Dido, the Queen of Carthage was acted by the Children of the Chapel, a company of boy actors, who gave performances in the late 1580s and early 1590s, so scholars estimate the first performance falling within 1587 and 1593.

The source text of this play is available from this link.

Dido Building Carthage, by J.M.W. Turner, 1815

Dido’ s Death by Andrea Sacchi

THE TRAGEDIE OF DIDO QUEENE OF CARTHAGE.

CONTENTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE

ACT THREE, SCENE ONE

ACT THREE, SCENE TWO

ACT THREE, SCENE THREE

ACT THREE, SCENE FOUR

ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE

ACT FOUR, SCENE TWO

ACT FOUR, SCENE THREE

ACT FOUR, SCENE FOUR

ACT FOUR, SCENE FIVE

ACT FIVE, SCENE ONE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Gods:

Jupiter

Mercury (Hermes)

Ganymede

Cupid

Goddesses:

Venus

Juno

Trojans:

Aeneas

Ascanius, his son

Achates

Ilioneus

Cloanthus

Sergestus

Iarbus, King of Gaetulia

Dido, Queen of Carthage

Anna, her sister

Nurse

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE

Here the curtains draw, there is discovered Jupiter dandling Ganymede upon his knee, and Mercury lying asleep.

JUPITER.

Come, gentle Ganymede, and play with me.

I love thee well, say Juno what she will.

GANYMEDE.

I am much better for your worthless love,

That will not shield me from her shrewish blows.

Today, whenas I filled into your cups

And held the cloth of pleasance while you drank,

She reached me such a rap for that I spilled,

As made the blood run down about mine ears.

JUPITER.

What? Dares she strike the darling of my thoughts?

By Saturn’s soul, and this earth threat’ning hair,

That, shaken thrice, makes nature’s buildings quake,

I vow, if she but once frown on thee more,

To hang her, meteorlike, ‘twixt heaven and earth,

And bind her, hand and foot, with golden cords,

As once I did for harming Hercules.

GANYMEDE.

Might I but see that pretty sport afoot,

O, how would I with Helen’s brother laugh,

And bring the gods to wonder at the game.

Sweet Jupiter, if e’er I pleased thine eye

Or seemed fair, walled in with eagle’s wings,

Grace my immortal beauty with this boon,

And I will spend my time in thy bright arms.

JUPITER.

What is’t, sweet wag, I should deny thy youth,

Whose face reflects such pleasure to mine eyes,

As I, exhaled with thy fire darting beams,

Have oft driven back the horses of the night,

Whenas they would have haled thee from my sight.

Sit on my knee and call for thy content;

Control proud Fate and cut the thread of Time.

Why, are not all the gods at thy command

And heaven and earth the bounds of thy delight?

Vulcan shall dance to make thee laughing sport,

And my nine daughters sing when thou art sad.

From Juno’s bird I’ll pluck her spotted pride

To make thee fans wherewith to cool thy face,

And Venus’ swans shall shed their silver down

Hermes no more shall show the world his wings,

If that thy fancy in his feathers dwell,

But, as this one, I’ll tear them all from him,

Do thou but say, “their colour pleaseth me.”

Hold here, my little love. These linked gems

My Juno ware upon her marriage day,

Put thou about thy neck, my own sweet heart,

And trick thy arms and shoulders with my theft.

GANYMEDE.

I would have a jewel for mine ear

And a fine brooch to put in my hat,

And then I’ll hug with you an hundred times.

JUPITER.

And shall have, Ganymede, if thou wilt be my love.

Enter Venus.

VENUS.

Ay, this is it! You can sit toying there

And playing with that female wanton boy,

While my Aeneas wanders on the seas

And rests a prey to every billow’s pride.

Juno, false Juno, in her chariot’s pomp,

Drawn through the heavens by steeds of Boreas’ brood,

Made Hebe to direct her airy wheels

Into the windy country of the clouds,

Where, finding Aeolus entrenched with storms

And guarded with a thousand grisly ghosts,

She humbly did beseech him for our bane,

And charged him drown my son with all his train.

Then gan the winds break ope their brazen doors

And all Aeolia to be up in arms

Poor Troy must now be sacked upon the sea,

And Neptune’s waves be envious men of war;

Epeus’ horse, to Aetna’s hill transformed,

Prepared stands to wrack their wooden walls,

And Aeolus, like Agamemnon, sounds

The surges, his fierce soldiers, to the spoil.

See how the night, Ulysses-like, comes forth

And intercepts the day, as Dolon erst.

Ay me! The stars surprised, like Rhesus’ steeds,

Are drawn by darkness forth Astraeus’ tents.

What shall I do to save thee, my sweet boy,

Whenas the waves do threat our crystal world,

And Proteus, raising hills of floods on high,

Intends ere long to sport him in the sky?

False Jupiter, reward’st thou virtue so?

What? Is not piety exempt from woe?

Then die, Aeneas, in thine innocence,

Since that religion hath no recompense.

JUPITER.

Content thee, Cytherea, in thy care,

Since thy Aeneas’ wandering fate is firm,

Whose weary limbs shall shortly make repose

In those fair walls I promised him of yore.

But first in blood must his good fortune bud,

Before he be the lord of Turnus’ town,

Or force her smile that hitherto hath frowned.

Three winters shall he with the Rutiles war,

And in the end subdue them with his sword;

And full three summers likewise shall he waste

In managing those fierce barbarian minds,

Which once performed, poor Troy, so long suppressed,

From forth her ashes shall advance her head,

And flourish once again, that erst was dead.

But bright Ascanius, beauty’s better work,

Who with the sun divides one radiant shape,

Shall build his throne amidst those starry towers

That earth-born Atlas, groaning, underprops.

No bounds but heaven shall bound his empery,

Whose azured gates enchased with his name,

Shall make the morning haste her gray uprise

To feed her eyes with his engraven fame.

Thus in stout Hector’s race thee hundred years

The Roman sceptre royal shall remain,

Till that a princess priest conceived by Mars,

Shall yield to dignity a double birth,

Who will eternize Troy in their attempts.

VENUS.

How may I credit these thy flattering terms,

When yet both sea and sands beset their ships,

And Phoebus, as in Stygian pools, refrains

To taint his tresses in the Tyrrhene main?

JUPITER.

I will take order for that presently.

Hermes awake, and haste to Neptune’s realm,

Whereas the wind god, warring now with Fate,

Besiege the offspring of our kingly loins.

Charge him from me to turn his stormy powers

And fetter them in Vulcan’s sturdy brass,

That durst thus proudly wrong our kinsman’s peace.

Exit Hermes.

Venus, farewell; thy son shall be our care.

Come, Ganymede, we must about this gear.

Exeunt Jupiter with Ganymede.

VENUS.

Disquiet seas, lay down your swelling looks,

And court Aeneas with your calmy cheer,

Whose beauteous burden well might make you proud,

Had not the heavens, conceived with hell-born clouds,

Veiled his resplendent glory from your view.

For my sake pity him, Oceanus,

That erstwhile issued from thy wat’ry loins

And had my being from thy bubbling froth.

Triton, I know, hath filled his trump with Troy,

And therefore will take pity on his toil,

And call both Thetis and Cymothoe

To succour him in this extremity.

Enter Aeneas with Ascanius, with one or two more.

What? Do I see my son now come on shore?

Venus, how art thou compassed with content,

The while thine eyes attract their sought-for joys.

Great Jupiter, still honoured mayst thou be

For this so friendly aid in time of need.

Here in this bush disguised will I stand,

While my Aeneas spends himself in plaints,

And heaven and earth with his unrest acquaints.

AENEAS.

You sons of care, companions of my course,

Priam’s misfortune follows us by sea,

And Helen’s rape doth haunt ye at the heels.

How many dangers have we overpassed!

Both barking Scylla and the sounding rocks,

The Cyclops’ shelves, and grim Ceraunia’s seat

Have you o’ergone and yet remain alive?

Pluck up your hearts, since fate still rests our friend,

And changing heavens may those good days return,

Which Pergama did vaunt in all her pride.

ACHATES.

Brave prince of Troy, thou only art our god,

That by thy virtues freest us from annoy.

And mak’st our hopes survive to coming joys.

Do thou but smile and cloudy heaven will clear,

Whose night and day descendeth from thy brows.

Though we be now in extreme misery

And rest the map of weather-beaten woe,

Yet shall the aged sun shed forth his hair

To make us live unto our former heat,

And every beast the forest doth send forth

Bequeath her young ones to our scanted food.

ASCANIUS.

Father, I faint. Good father, give me meat.

AENEAS.

Alas, sweet boy, thou must be still a while,

Till we have fire to dress the meat we killed.

Gentle Achates, reach the tinder box,

That we may make a fire to warm us with

And roast our new found victuals on this shore.

VENUS.

See what strange arts necessity finds out.

How near, my sweet Aeneas, art thou driven!

AENEAS.

Hold, take this candle and go light a fire.

You shall have leaves and windfall boughs enow,

Near to these woods, to roast your meat withal.

Ascanius, go and dry thy drenched limbs,

While I with my Achates rove abroad,

To know what coast the wind hath driven us on,

Or whether men or beasts inhabit it.

ACHATES.

The air is pleasant, and the soil most fit

For cities and society’s supports;

Yet much I marvel that I cannot find

No steps of men imprinted in the earth.

VENUS.

Now is the time for me to play my part.

Ho, young men! Saw you as you came

Any of all my sisters wandering here,

Having a quiver girded to her side

And clothed in a spotted leopard’s skin?

AENEAS.

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 aught human in thy birth?

Thou art a goddess that delud’st our eyes

And shroud’st thy beauty in this borrowed 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 called

On which by tempest’s 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.

VENUS.

Such honour, stranger, do I not affect.

It is the use for Tyrian maids to wear

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 inquire,

It is the Punic kingdom, rich and strong,

Adjoining on Agenor’s stately town,

The kingly seat of southern Libya,

Whereas Sidonian Dido rules as queen.

But what are you that ask of me these things?

Whence may you come, or whither will you go?

AENEAS.

Of Troy am I.

Aeneas is my name,

Who driven by war from forth my native world,

Put sails to sea to seek out Italy;

And my divine descent from sceptred Jove.

With twice twelve Phrygian ships I ploughed the deep

And made that way my mother Venus led,

But of them all scarce seven do anchor safe,

And they so wracked and weltered by the waves,

As every tide tilts ‘twixt their oaken sides.

And all of them, unburdened of their load,

Are ballasted with billows’ wat’ry weight.

But hapless I, God wot, poor and unknown,

Do trace these Libyan deserts all despised,

Exiled forth Europe and wide Asia both,

And have not any coverture but heaven.

VENUS.

Fortune hath favoured thee, whate’er thou be,

In sending thee unto this courteous coast.

A’ 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 perished in the storm,

But are arrived safe not far from hence.

And so I leave thee to thy fortune’s lot,

Wishing good luck unto thy wandering steps.

Exit.

AENEAS.

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.

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

Enter Ilioneus, Cloanthus, Iarbus and Sergestus.

ILIONEUS.

Follow, ye Trojans, follow this brave lord,

And plain to him the sum of your distress.

IARBUS.

Why, what are you, or wherefore do you sue?

ILIONEUS.

Wretches of Troy, envied of all 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 Libyan gods,

Or steal your household Lares from their shrines;

Our hands are not prepared to lawless spoil,

Nor armed to offend in any kind.

Such force is far from our unweaponed thoughts,

Whose fading weal, of victory forsook,

Forbids all hope to harbour near our hearts.

IARBUS.

But tell me, Trojans, Trojans if you be,

Unto what fruitful quarters were ye bound,

Before that Boreas buckled with your sails?

CLOANTHUS.

There is a place, Hesperia termed by us,

An ancient empire, famoused for arms,

And fertile in fair 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 gloomy Orion rose

And led our ships into the shallow sands,

Whereas the southern wind with brackish breath

Dispersed them all amongst the wrackful rocks.

From thence a few of us escaped to land;

The rest, we fear, are folded in the floods.

IARBUS.

Brave men-at-arms, abandon fruitless fears,

Since Carthage knows to entertain distress.

SERGESTUS.

Ay, but the barbarous 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.

IARBUS.

Myself will see they shall not trouble ye.

Your men and you shall banquet in our court,

And every 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.

SERGESTUS.

Thanks, gentle lord, for such unlooked for grace.

Might we but once more see Aeneas’ face,

Then would we hope to quite such friendly turns

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE

Enter Aeneas, Achates, and Ascanius.

AENEAS.

Where am I now? These should be Carthage walls.

ACHATES.

Why stands my sweet Aeneas thus amazed?

AENEAS.

O my Achates, Theban Niobe,

Who for her sons’ death wept out life and breath

And, dry with grief, was turned into a stone,

Had not such passions in her head as I.

Methinks that town there should be Troy, yon Ida’s Hill,

There Xanthus’ stream, because here’s Priamus;

And when I know it is not, then I die.

ACHATES.

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?

AENEAS.

O, yet this stone doth make Aeneas 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 revenged

On these hardhearted Grecians which rejoice

That nothing now is left of Priamus.

O, Priamus is left, and this is he!

Come, come aboard; pursue the hateful Greeks.

ACHATES.

What means Aeneas?

AENEAS.

Achates, though mine eyes say this is stone,

Yet thinks my mind that this is Priamus,

And when my grieved heart sighs and says no,

Then would it leap out to give Priam life.

O, were I not at all, so thou mightst be!

Achates, see! King Priam wags his hand!

He is alive! Troy is not overcome!

ACHATES.

Thy mind, Aeneas, that would have it so,

Deludes thy eyesight. Priamus is dead.

AENEAS.

Ah, Troy is sacked and Priamus is dead,

And why should poor Aeneas be alive?

ASCANIUS.

Sweet father, leave to weep. This is not he,

ACHATES.

Aeneas see; here come the citizens.

Leave to lament, lest they laugh at our fears. .

Enter Cloanthus, Sergestus, Ilioneus, and others.

AENEAS.

Lords of this town, or whatsoever style

Belongs unto your name, vouchsafe of ruth

To tell us who inhabits this fair town,

What kind of people and who governs them,

For we are strangers driven on this shore

And scarcely know within what clime we are.

ILIONEUS.

I hear Aeneas’ voice, but see him not,

For none of these can be our general.

ACHATES.

Like Ilioneus speaks this noble man,

But Ilioneus goes not in such robes.

SERGESTUS.

You are Achates, or I am deceived.

ACHATES.

Aeneas, see Sergestus or his ghost!

ILIONEUS.

He names Aeneas; let us kiss his feet.

CLOANTHUS.

It is our captain! See Ascanius!

SERGESTUS.

Live long Aeneas and Ascanius!

AENEAS.

Achates, speak, for I am overjoyed.

ACHATES.

O Ilioneus, art thou yet alive?

ILIONEUS.

Blest be the time I see Achates’ face.

CLOANTHUS.

Why turns Aeneas from his trusty friends?

AENEAS.

Sergestus, Ilioneus, and the rest,

Your sight amazed me. O, what destinies

Have brought my sweet companions in such plight?

O tell me, for I long to be resolved.

ILIONEUS.

Lovely Aeneas, these are Carthage walls,

And here Queen Dido wears th’ imperial crown,

Who for Troy’s sake hath entertained us all

And clad us in these wealthy robes we wear.

Oft hath she asked us under whom we served,

And when we told her, she would weep for grief,

Thinking the sea had swallowed up thy ships;

And now she sees thee, how will she rejoice!

SERGESTUS.

See where her servitors pass through the hall,

Bearing a banquet. Dido is not far.

ILIONEUS.

Look where she comes! Aeneas, view her well.

AENEAS.

Well may I view her, but she sees not me.

Enter Dido and her train.

DIDO.

What stranger art thou that dost eye me thus?

AENEAS.

Sometime I was a Trojan, mighty queen,

But Troy is not. What shall I say I am?

ILIONEUS.

Renowned Dido, ’tis our general,

DIDO.

Warlike Aeneas, and in these base robes!

Go fetch the garment which Sichaeus ware.

Exit an Attendant.

Brave prince, welcome to Carthage and to me,

Both happy that Aeneas is our guest.

Sit in this chair and banquet with a queen.

Aeneas is Aeneas, were he clad

In weeds as bad as ever Irus ware.

AENEAS.

This is no seat for one that’s comfortless.

May it please your grace to let Aeneas wait,

For though my birth be great, my fortune’s mean,

Too mean to be companion to a queen.

DIDO.

Thy fortune may be greater than thy birth.

Sit down, Aeneas, sit in Dido’s place,

And if this be thy son, as I suppose,

Here let him sit. Be merry, lovely child.

AENEAS.

This place beseems me not. O, pardon me.

DIDO.

I’ll have it so. Aeneas, be content.

ASCANIUS.

Madam, you shall be my mother.

DIDO.

And so I will, sweet child. Be merry man!

Here’s to thy better fortune and good stars.

AENEAS.

In all humility, I thank your grace.

DIDO.

Remember who thou art. Speak like thyself.

Humility belongs to common grooms.

AENEAS.

And who so miserable as Aeneas is?

DIDO.

Lies it in Dido’s hands to make thee blest,

Then be assured thou art not miserable.

AENEAS.

O Priamus! O Troy! Oh Hecuba!

DIDO.

May I entreat thee to discourse at large,

And truly too, how Troy was overcome,

For many tales go of that city’s fall,

And scarcely do agree upon one point.

Some say Antenor did betray the town;

Others report ’twas Sinon’s perjury;

But all in this, that Troy is overcome

And Priam dead. Yet how, we hear no news.

AENEAS.

A woeful tale bids Dido to unfold,

Whose memory, like pale Death’s stony mace,

Beats forth my senses from this troubled soul

And makes Aeneas sink at Dido’s feet.

DIDO.

What, faints Aeneas to remember Troy,

In whose defence he fought so valiantly?

Look up and speak.

AENEAS.

Then speak, Aeneas, with Achilles’ tongue,

And Dido and you Carthaginian peers

Daily inured to broils and massacres,

Lest you be moved too much with my sad tale.

The Grecian soldiers, tired with ten years’ war,

Began to cry, “let us unto our ships,

Troy is invincible. Why stay we here?”

With whose outcries Atrides being appalled,

Summoned the captains to his princely tent,

Who, looking on the scars we Trojans gave,

Seeing the number of their men decreased

And the remainder weak and out of heart,

Gave up their voices to dislodge the camp.

And so in troops all marched to Tenedos,

Where when they came, Ulysses on the sand

Assayed with honey words to turn them back.

And as he spoke to further his intent,

The winds did drive huge billows to the shore,

And heaven was darkened with tempestuous clouds.

Then he alleged the gods would have them stay,

And prophesied Troy should be overcome;

And therewithal he called false Sinon forth,

A man compact of craft and perjury,

Whose ticing tongue was made of Hermes’ pipe,

To force an hundred watchful eyes to sleep.

And him, Epeus having made the horse,

With sacrificing wreaths upon his head,

Ulysses sent to our unhappy town,

Who, grovelling in the mire of Xanthus’ banks,

His hands bound at his back, and both his eyes

Turned up to heaven, as one resolved to die,

Our Phrygian shepherds haled within the gates

And brought unto the court of Priamus,

To whom he used action so pitiful,

Looks so remorseful, vows so forcible,

As therewithal the old man, overcome,

Kissed him, embraced him, and unloosed his bands.

And then - O Dido, pardon me!

DIDO.

Nay, leave not here. Resolve me of the rest.

AENEAS.

O, th’ enchanting words of that base slave

Made him to think Epeus’ pine tree horse

A sacrifice t’ appease Minerva’s wrath,

The rather, for that one Laocoon,

Breaking a spear upon his hollow breast,

Was with two winged serpents stung to death.

Whereat aghast, we were commanded straight

With reverence to draw it into Troy,

In which unhappy work was I employed.

These hands did help to hale it to the gates,

Through which it could not enter, ’twas so huge.

O, had it never entered, Troy had stood!

But Priamus, impatient of delay,

Enforced a wide breach in that rampired wall,

Which thousand battering rams could never pierce,

And so came in this fatal instrument;

At whose accursed feet, as overjoyed,

We banqueted till, overcome with wine,

Some surfeited and others soundly slept.

Which Sinon viewing, caused the Greekish spies

To haste to Tenedos, and tell the camp.

Then he unlocked the horse, and suddenly

From out his entrails Neoptolemus,

Setting his spear upon the ground, leaped forth,

And after him a thousand Grecians more,

In whose stern faces shined the quenchless fire

That after burnt the pride of Asia.

By this, the camp was come unto the walls,

And through the breach did march into the streets,

Where, meeting with the rest, “kill, kill,” they cried.

Frighted with this confused noise, I rose,

And looking from a turret, might behold

Young infants swimming in their parents’ blood,

Headless carcasses piled up in heaps,

Virgins half-dead, dragged by their golden hair

And with main force flung on a ring of pikes,

Old men with swords thrust through their aged sides,

Kneeling for mercy to a Greekish lad,

Who with steel poleaxes dashed out their brains.

Then buckled I mine armour, drew my sword,

And thinking to go down, came Hector’s ghost,

With ashy visage, bluish sulphur eyes,

His arms torn from his shoulders, and his breast

Furrowed with wounds, and, that which made me weep,

Thongs at his heels, by which Achilles’ horse

Drew him in triumph through the Greekish camp,

Burst from the earth, crying “Aeneas, fly!

Troy is afire! The Grecians have the town!”

DIDO.

O Hector, who weeps not to hear thy name?

AENEAS.

Yet flung I forth, and, desperate of my life,

Ran in the thickest throngs, and with this sword

Sent many of their savage ghosts to hell.

At last came Pyrrhus, fell and full of ire,

His harness dropping blood, and on his spear

The mangled head of Priam’s youngest son,

And after him his band of Myrmidons,

With balls of wild fire in their murdering paws,

Which made the funeral flame that burnt fair Troy

All which hemmed me about, crying, “this is he.”

DIDO.

Ah, how could poor Aeneas scape their hands?

AENEAS.

My mother, Venus, jealous of my health,

Conveyed me from their crooked nets and bands.

So I escaped the furious Pyrrhus’ wrath,

Who then ran to the palace of the king,

And at Jove’s altar finding Priamus,

About whose withered neck hung Hecuba,

Folding his hand in hers, and jointly both

Beating their breasts and falling on the ground,

He, with his falchion’s point raised up at once,

And with Megaera’s eyes, stared in their face,

Threat’ning a thousand deaths at every glance.

To whom the aged king thus, trembling, spoke:

“Achilles’ son, remember what I was,

Father of fifty sons, but they are slain;

Lord of my fortune, but my fortune’s turned;

King of this city, but my Troy is fired;

And now am neither father, lord, nor king.

Yet who so wretched but desires to live?

O, let me live, great Neoptolemus!”

Not moved at all, but smiling at his tears,

This butcher, whilst his hands were yet held up,

Treading upon his breast, struck off his hands.

DIDO.

O end, Aeneas! I can hear no more.

AENEAS.

At which the frantic queen leaped on his face,

And in his eyelids hanging by the nails,

A little while prolonged her husband’s life.

At last the soldiers pulled her by the heels

And swung her howling in the empty air,

Which sent an echo to the wounded king,

Whereat he lifted up his bed-rid limbs,

And would have grappled with Achilles’ son,

Forgetting both his want of strength and hands,

(Which he disdaining, whisk’d his sword about,)

And with the wind thereof the king fell down.

Then from the navel to the throat at once

He ripped old Priam, at whose latter gasp

Jove’s marble statue ‘gan to bend the brow,

As loathing Pyrrhus for this wicked act.

Yet he, undaunted, took his father’s flag

And dipped it in the old king’s chill cold blood,

And then in triumph ran into the streets,

Through which he could not pass for slaughtered men.

So, leaning on his sword, he stood stone still,

Viewing the fire wherewith rich Ilion burned.

By this, I got my father on my back,

This young boy in mine arms, and by the hand

Led fair Creusa, my beloved wife.

When thou, Achates, with thy sword mad’st way,

And we were round environed with the Greeks,

O there I lost my wife, and had not we

Fought manfully, I had not told this tale.

Yet manhood would not serve. Of force we fled,

And as we went unto our ships, thou knowest

We saw Cassandra sprawling in the streets,

Whom Ajax ravished in Diana’s fane,

Her cheeks swollen with sighs, her hair all rent,

Whom I took up to bear unto our ships.

But suddenly the Grecians followed us,

And I, alas, was forced to let her lie.

Then got we to our ships, and being aboard,

Polyxena cried out, “Aeneas, stay!

The Greeks pursue me. Stay and take me in!”

Moved with her voice, I leaped into the sea,

Thinking to bear her on my back aboard,

For all our ships were launched into the deep,

And as I swum, she, standing on the shore,

Was by the cruel Myrmidons surprised

And after by that Pyrrhus sacrificed.

DIDO.

I die with melting ruth. Aeneas, leave.

ANNA.

O, what became of aged Hecuba?

IARBUS.

How got Aeneas to the fleet again?

DIDO.

But how scaped Helen, she that caused this war?

AENEAS.

Achates, speak. Sorrow hath tired me quite.

ACHATES.

What happened to the queen we cannot show.

We hear they led her captive into Greece.

As for Aeneas, he swam quickly back,

Her lover, after Alexander died,

And so was reconciled to Menelaus.

DIDO.

O, had that ticing strumpet ne’er been born!

Trojan, thy ruthful tale hath made me sad.

Come, let us think upon some pleasing sport

To rid me from these melancholy thoughts.

Exeunt omnes.

Enter Venus (with Cupid) at another door,

and takes Ascanius by the sleeve

VENUS.

Fair child, stay thou with Dido’s waiting maid.

I’ll give thee sugar almonds, sweet conserves,

A silver girdle, and a golden purse,

And this young prince shall be thy playfellow.

ASCANIUS.

Are you Queen Dido’s son?

CUPID.

Ay, and my mother gave me this fine bow.

ASCANIUS.

Shall I have such a quiver and a bow?

VENUS.

Such bow, such quiver, and such golden shafts

Will Dido give to sweet Ascanius.

For Dido’s sake I take thee in my arms

And stick these spangled feathers in thy hat.

Eat comfits in mine arms and I will sing.

Now is he fast asleep, and in this grove

Amongst green brakes I’ll lay Ascanius

And strew him with sweet smelling violets,

Blushing roses, purple hyacinth.

These milk-white doves shall be his centronels,

Who, if that any seek to do him hurt,

Will quickly fly to Cytherea’s fist.

Now, Cupid, turn thee to Ascanius’ shape

And go to Dido, who, in stead of him,

Will set thee on her lap and play with thee.

Then touch her white breast with this arrow head,

That she may dote upon Aeneas’ love,

And by that means repair his broken ships,

Victual his soldiers, give him wealthy gifts,

And he at last depart to Italy,

Or else in Carthage make his kingly throne.

CUPID.

I will, fair mother, and so play my part

As every touch shall wound Queen Dido’s heart.

Exit.

VENUS.

Sleep, my sweet nephew, in these cooling shades,

Free from the murmur of these running streams,

The cry of beasts, the rattling of the winds,

Or whisking of these leaves. All shall be still

And nothing interrupt thy quiet sleep

Till I return and take thee hence again.

ACT THREE, SCENE ONE

Enter Cupid solus, disguised as Asconius.

CUPID.

Now, Cupid, cause the Carthaginian queen

To be enamoured of thy brother’s looks.

Convey this golden arrow in thy sleeve,

Lest she imagine thou art Venus’ son,

And when she strokes thee softly on the head,

Then shall I touch her breast and conquer her.

Enter Iarbas, Anna, and Dido.

IARBUS.

How long, fair Dido, shall I pine for thee?

’Tis not enough that thou dost grant me love,

But that I may enjoy what I desire.

That love is childish which consists in words.

DIDO.

Iarbas, know that thou of all my wooers

(and yet have I had many mightier kings)

Hast had the greatest favours I could give.

I fear me, Dido hath been counted light

In being too familiar with Iarbas,

Albeit the gods do know no wanton thought

Had ever residence in Dido’s breast.

IARBUS.

But Dido is the favour I request.

DIDO.

Fear not, Iarbas; Dido may be thine.

ANNA.

Look, sister, how Aeneas’ little son

Plays with your garments and embraceth you.

CUPID.

No, Dido will not take me in her arms;

I shall not be her son, she loves me not.

DIDO.

Weep not, sweet boy; thou shalt be Dido’s son.

Sit in my lap, and let me hear thee sing.

No more, my child. Now talk another while,

And tell me where learned’st thou this pretty song.

CUPID.

My cousin Helen taught it me in Troy.

DIDO.

How lovely is Ascanius when he smiles.

CUPID.

Will Dido let me hang about her neck?

DIDO.

Ay, wag, and give thee leave to kiss her too.

CUPID.

What will you give me now? I’ll have this fan.

DIDO.

Take it, Ascanius, for thy father’s sake.

IARBUS.

Come, Dido, leave Ascanius. Let us walk.

DIDO.

Go thou away. Ascanius shall stay.

IARBUS.

Ungentle queen, is this thy love to me?

DIDO.

O stay, Iarbas, and I’ll go with thee.

CUPID.

And if my mother go, I’ll follow her.

DIDO.

Why stay’st thou here? Thou art no love of mine.

IARBUS.

Iarbas die, seeing she abandons thee.

DIDO.

No, live Iarbas. What hast thou deserved,

That I should say thou art no love of mine?

Something thou hast deserved. Away, I say!

Depart from Carthage. Come not in my sight.

IARBUS.

Am I not king of rich Gaetulia?

DIDO.

Iarbas, pardon me and stay a while.

CUPID.

Mother, look here.

DIDO.

What tell’st thou me of rich Gaetulia?

Am not I queen of Libya? Then depart.

IARBUS.

I go to feed the humour of my love,

Yet not from Carthage for a thousand worlds.

DIDO.

Iarbas!

IARBUS.

Doth Dido call me back?

DIDO.

No; but I charge thee never look on me.

IARBUS.

Then pull out both mine eyes, or let me die.

Exit Iarbas.

ANNA.

Wherefore doth Dido bid Iarbas go?

DIDO.

Because his loathsome sight offends mine eye,

And in my thoughts is shrined another love.

O Anna, didst thou know how sweet love were,

Full soon wouldst thou abjure this single life.

ANNA.

Poor soul, I know too well the sour of love.

O, that Iarbas could but fancy me!

DIDO.

Is not Aeneas fair and beautiful?

ANNA.

Yes, and Iarbas foul and favourless.

DIDO.

Is he not eloquent in all his speech?

ANNA.

Yes, and Iarbas rude and rustical.

DIDO.

Name not Iarbas. But sweet Anna, say,

Is not Aeneas worthy Dido’s love?

ANNA.

O sister, were you empress of the world,

Aeneas well deserves to be your love.

So lovely is he that where’er he goes

The people swarm to gaze him in the face.

DIDO.

But tell them none shall gaze on him but I,

Lest their gross eyebeams taint my lover’s cheeks.

Anna, good sister Anna, go for him,

Lest with these sweet thoughts I melt clean away.

ANNA.

Then, sister, you’ll abjure Iarbas’ love?

DIDO.

Yet must I hear that loathsome name again?

Run for Aeneas, or I’ll fly to him.

Exit Anna.

CUPID.

You shall not hurt my father when he comes.

DIDO.

No; for thy sake I’ll love thy father well.

O dull conceited Dido, that till now

Didst never think Aeneas beautiful!

But now, for quittance of this oversight,

I’ll make me bracelets of his golden hair;

His glistering eyes shall be my looking glass,

His lips an altar, where I’ll offer up

As many kisses as the sea hath sands.

Instead of music I will hear him speak.

His looks shall be my only library,

And thou, Aeneas, Dido’s treasury,

In whose fair bosom I will lock more wealth

Than twenty thousand Indias can afford.

O, here he comes! Love, love, give Dido leave

To be more modest than her thoughts admit,

Lest I be made a wonder to the world.

Enter Aeneas, Achates, Sergestus,

Ilioneus and Cloanthus.

Achates, how doth Carthage please your lord?

ACHATES.

That will Aeneas show your majesty.

DIDO.

Aeneas, art thou there?

AENEAS.

I understand your highness sent for me.

DIDO.

No, but now thou art here, tell me, in sooth

In what might Dido highly pleasure thee.

AENEAS.

So much have I received at Dido’s hands,

As, without blushing, I can ask no more.

Yet, Queen of Afric, are my ships unrigged,

My sails all rent in sunder with the wind,

My oars broken, and my tackling lost,

Yea, all my navy split with rocks and shelves;

Nor stern nor anchor have our maimed fleet;

Our masts the furious winds struck overboard;

Which piteous wants if Dido will supply,

We will account her author of our lives.

DIDO.

Aeneas, I’ll repair thy Trojan ships,

Conditionally that thou wilt stay with me

And let Achates sail to Italy.

I’ll give thee tackling made of rivelled gold,

Wound on the barks of odoriferous trees,

Oars of massy ivory, full of holes

Through which the water shall delight to play.

Thy anchors shall be hewed from crystal rocks

Which, if thou lose, shall shine above the waves;

The masts whereon thy swelling sails shall hang,

Hollow pyramids of silver plate;

The sails of folded lawn, where shall be wrought

The wars of Troy, but not Troy’s overthrow.

For ballast, empty Dido’s treasury.

Take what ye will, but leave Aeneas here.

Achates, thou shalt be so meanly clad

As sea-borne nymphs shall swarm about thy ships

And wanton mermaids court thee with sweet songs,

Flinging in favours of more sovereign worth

Than Thetis hangs about Apollo’s neck,

So that Aeneas may but stay with me.

AENEAS.

Wherefore would Dido have Aeneas stay?

DIDO.

To war against my bordering enemies.

Aeneas, think not Dido is in love,

For if that any man could conquer me,

I had been wedded ere Aeneas came.

See where the pictures of my suitors hang;

And are not these as fair as fair may be?

ACHATES.

I saw this man at Troy, ere Troy was sacked.

AENEAS.

I this in Greece when Paris stole fair Helen.

ILIONEUS.

This man and I were at Olympus’ games.

SERGESTUS.

I know this face. He is a Persian born.

I traveled with him to Aetolia.

CLOANTHUS.

And I in Athens with this gentleman,

Unless I be deceived, disputed once.

DIDO.

But speak, Aeneas; know you none of these?

AENEAS.

No, madam, but it seems that these are kings.

DIDO.

All these and others which I never saw

Have been most urgent suitors for my love.

Some came in person; others sent their legates;

Yet none obtained me; I am free from all,

And yet, God knows, entangled unto one.

This was an orator and thought by words

To compass me, but yet he was deceived;

And this a Spartan courtier, vain and wild,

But his fantastic humours pleased not me.

This was Alcion, a musician,

But played he ne’er so sweet, I let him go.

This was the wealthy king of Thessaly,

But I had gold enough and cast him off;

This Meleager’s son, a warlike prince,

But weapons ‘gree not with my tender years.

The rest are such as all the world well knows,

Yet now I swear, by heaven and him I love,

I was as far from love as they from hate.

AENEAS.

O, happy shall he be whom Dido loves.

DIDO.

Then never say that thou art miserable,

Because it may be thou shalt be my love.

Yet boast not of it, for I love thee not.

And yet I hate thee not. O, if I speak,

I shall betray myself. Aeneas speak.

We two will go ahunting in the woods,

But not so much for thee - thou art but one -

ACT THREE, SCENE TWO

Enter Juno to Ascanius, asleep.

JUNO.

Here lies my hate, Aeneas’ cursed brat,

The boy wherein false destiny delights,

The heir of Fame, the favourite of the Fates,

That ugly imp that shall outwear my wrath

And wrong my deity with high disgrace.

But I will take another order now

And raze th’ eternal register of time.

Troy shall no more call him her second hope,

Nor Venus triumph in his tender youth,

For here, in spite of heaven, I’ll murder him

And feed infection with his let out life.

Say, Paris, now shall Venus have the ball?

Say, vengeance, now shall her Ascanius die?

O, no! God wot, I cannot watch my time,

Nor quit good turns with double fee down told.

Tut, I am simple, without mind to hurt,

And have no gall at all to grieve my foe,

But lustful Jove and his adulterous child

Shall find it written on confusion’s front,

That only Juno rules in Rhamnus’ town.

Enter Venus.

VENUS.

What should this mean? My doves are back returned,

Who warn me of such danger prest at hand

To harm my sweet Ascanius’ lovely life.

Juno, my mortal foe, what make you here?

Avaunt, old witch, and trouble not my wits.

JUNO.

Fie, Venus, that such causeless words of wrath

Should e’er defile so fair a mouth as thine.

Are not we both sprung of celestial race

And banquet as two sisters with the gods?

Why is it then displeasure should disjoin

Whom kindred and acquaintance co-unites?

VENUS.

Out, hateful hag! Thou wouldst have slain my son,

Had not my doves discovered thy intent.

But I will tear thy eyes from forth thy head,

And feast the birds with their blood-shotten balls,

If thou but lay thy fingers on my boy.

JUNO.

Is this then all the thanks that I shall have

For saving him from snakes’ and serpents’ stings

That would have killed him, sleeping as he lay?

What though I was offended with thy son,

And wrought him mickle woe on sea and land,

When, for the hate of Trojan Ganymede,

That was advanced by my Hebe’s shame,

And Paris’ judgment of the heavenly ball,

I mustered all the winds unto his wrack

And urged each element to his annoy.

Yet now I do repent me of his ruth

And wish that I had never wronged him so.

Bootless, I saw, it was to war with fate

That hath so many unresisted friends,

Wherefore I changed my counsel with the time

And planted love where envy erst had sprung.

VENUS.

Sister of Jove, if that thy love be such

As these thy protestations do paint forth,

We two as friends one fortune will divide.

Cupid shall lay his arrows in thy lap

And to a sceptre change his golden shafts;

Fancy and modesty shall live as mates

And thy fair peacocks by my pigeons perch.

Love my Aeneas, and desire is thine;

The day, the night, my swans, my sweets, are thine.

JUNO.

More than melodious are these words to me,

That overcloy my soul with their content.

Venus, sweet Venus, how may I deserve

Such amorous favours at thy beauteous hand?

But that thou mayst more easily perceive

How highly I do prize this amity,

Hark to a motion of eternal league,

Which I will make in quittance of thy love.

Thy son, thou know’st, with Dido now remains

And feeds his eyes with favours of her court;

She likewise in admiring spends her time

And cannot talk nor think of aught but him.

Why should not they then join in marriage

And bring forth mighty kings to Carthage town,

Whom casualty of sea hath made such friends?

And, Venus, let there be a match confirmed

Betwixt these two whose loves are so alike,

And both our deities, conjoined in one,

Shall chain felicity unto their throne.

VENUS.

Well could I like this reconcilement’s means,

But much I fear my son will ne’er consent,

Whose armed soul, already on the sea,

Darts forth her light to Lavinia’s shore.

JUNO.

Fair queen of love, I will divorce these doubts

And find the way to weary such fond thoughts.

This day they both a-hunting forth will ride

Into these woods adjoining to these walls,

When in the midst of all their gamesome sports,

I’ll make the clouds dissolve their wat’ry works

And drench Silvanus’ dwellings with their showers.

Then in one cave the queen and he shall meet

And interchangeably discourse their thoughts,

Whose short conclusion will seal up their hearts

Unto the purpose which we now propound.

VENUS.

Sister, I see you savour of my wiles.

Be it as you will have it for this once.

Meantime Ascanius shall be my charge,

Whom I will bear to Ida in mine arms,

And couch him in Adonis’ purple down.

Exeunt.

ACT THREE, SCENE THREE

Enter Dido, Aeneas, Anna, Iarbas, Achates, Cupid (as Ascanius) and followers.

DIDO.

Aeneas, think not but I honour thee

That thus in person go with thee to hunt.

My princely robes, thou seest, are laid aside,

Whose glittering pomp Diana’s shroud supplies,

All fellows now, disposed alike to sport.

The woods are wide, and we have store of game.

Fair Trojan, hold my golden bow a while

Until I gird my quiver to my side.

Lords, go before. We two must talk alone.

IARBUS.

Ungentle, can she wrong Iarbas so?

I’ll die before a stranger have that grace.

“We two will talk alone” - what words be these?

DIDO.

What makes Iarbas here of all the rest?

We could have gone without your company.

AENEAS.

But love and duty led him on perhaps,

To press beyond acceptance to your sight.

IARBUS.

Why, man of Troy, do I offend thine eyes?

Or art thou grieved thy betters press so nigh?

DIDO.

How now, Gaetulian, are ye grown so brave

To challenge us with your comparisons?

Peasant, go seek companions like thyself,

And meddle not with any that I love.

Aeneas, be not moved at what he says,

For otherwhile he will be out of joint.

IARBUS.

Women may wrong by privilege of love,

But should that man of men, (Dido except)

Have taunted me in these opprobrious terms,

I would have either drunk his dying blood,

Or else I would have given my life in gage.

DIDO.

Huntsmen, why pitch you not your toils apace

And rouse the lightfoot deer from forth their lair?

ANNA.

Sister, see. See Ascanius in his pomp,

Bearing his hunt-spear bravely in his hand.

DIDO.

Yea, little son, are you so forward now?

CUPID.

Ay, mother, I shall one day be a man,

And better able unto other arms;

Meantime these wanton weapons serve my war,

Which I will break betwixt a lion’s jaws.

DIDO.

What! Dar’st thou look a lion in the face?

ASCANIUS.

Ay, and outface him too, do what he can.

ANNA.

How like his father speaketh he in all.

AENEAS.

And might I live to see him sack rich Thebes

And load his spear with Grecian princes’ heads,

Then would I wish me with Anchises’ tomb

And dead to honour that hath brought me up.

IARBUS.

And might I live to see thee shipped away

And hoist aloft on Neptune’s hideous hills,

Then would I wish me in fair Dido’s arms

And dead to scorn that hath pursued me so.

AENEAS.

Stout friend, Achates, dost thou know this wood?

ACHATES.

As I remember, here you shot the deer

That saved your famished soldiers’ lives from death,

When first you set your foot upon the shore,

And here we met fair Venus, virgin-like,

Bearing her bow and quiver at her back.

AENEAS.

O, how these irksome labours now delight

And overjoy my thoughts with their escape.

Who would not undergo all kind of toil

To be well stored with such a winter’s tale?

DIDO.

Aeneas, leave these dumps and let’s away

Some to the mountains, some unto the soil,

You to the valleys, - thou (to Iarbus) unto the house.

Exeunt all except Iarbus.

IARBUS.

Ay, this it is which wounds me to the death,

To see a Phrygian, far-fet o’er the sea,

Preferred before a man of majesty.

O love! O hate! O cruel women’s hearts,

That imitate the moon in every change

And like the planets ever love to range.

What shall I do, thus wronged with disdain?

Revenge me on Aeneas or on her?

On her? Fond man, that were to war ‘gainst heaven

And with one shaft provoke ten thousand darts.

This Trojan’s end will be thy envy’s aim,

Whose blood will reconcile thee to content

And make love drunken with thy sweet desire.

But Dido, that now holdeth him so dear,

Will die with very tidings of his death.

But time will discontinue her content

And mould her mind unto new fancy’s shapes.

O God of heaven, turn the hand of Fate

Unto that happy day of my delight!

And then - what then? Iarbas shall but love.

So doth he now, though not with equal gain.

That resteth in the rival of thy pain,

Who ne’er will cease to soar till he be slain.

Exit.

ACT THREE, SCENE FOUR

The storm. Enter Aeneas and Dido in the cave at several times.

DIDO.

Aeneas!

AENEAS.

Dido!

DIDO.

Tell me, dear love, how found you out this cave?

AENEAS.

By chance, sweet queen, 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!

AENEAS.

Why, what is it that Dido may desire

And not obtain, be it in human power?

DIDO.

The thing that I will die before I ask,

And yet desire to have before I die.

AENEAS.

It is not aught Aeneas may achieve?

DIDO.

Aeneas? No, although his eyes do pierce.

AENEAS.

What, hath Iarbas angered her in aught,

And will she be avenged on his life?

DIDO.

Not angered me, except in angering thee.

AENEAS.

Who, then, of all so cruel may he be

That should detain thy eye in his defects?

DIDO.

The man that I do eye where’er I am,

Whose amorous face, like Paean, sparkles fire,

Whenas he butts his beams on Flora’s bed.

Prometheus hath put on Cupid’s shape,

And I must perish in his burning arms.

Aeneas, O Aeneas, quench these flames.

AENEAS.

What ails my queen? Is she fall’n sick of late?

DIDO.

Not sick, my love; but sick I must conceal

The torment that it boots me not reveal.

And yet I’ll speak. And yet I’ll hold my peace.

Do shame her worst, I will disclose my grief.

Aeneas, thou art he. What did I say?

Something it was that now I have forgot.

AENEAS.

What means fair Dido by this doubtful speech?

DIDO.

Nay, nothing. But Aeneas loves me not.

AENEAS.

Aeneas’ thoughts dare not ascend so high

As Dido’s heart, which monarchs might not scale.

DIDO.

It was because I saw no king like thee,

Whose golden crown might balance my content.

But now that I have found what to affect,

I follow one that loveth fame ‘fore me,

And rather had seem fair to Sirens’ eyes

Than to the Carthage queen that dies for him.

AENEAS.

If that your majesty can look so low

As my despised worths that shun all praise,

With this my hand I give to you my heart

And vow by all the gods of hospitality,

By heaven and earth, and my fair brother’s bow,

By Paphos, Capys, and the purple sea

From whence my radiant mother did descend,

And by this sword that saved me from the Greeks,

Never to leave these new-upreared walls,

While Dido lives and rules in Juno’s town,

Never to like or love any but her.

DIDO.

What more than Delian music do I hear,

That calls my soul from forth his living seat

To move unto the measures of delight!

Kind clouds that sent forth such a courteous storm

As made disdain to fly to fancy’s lap!

Stout love, in mine arms make thy Italy,

Whose crown and kingdom rests at thy command.

Sichaeus, not Aeneas be thou called.

The King of Carthage, not Anchises’ son.

Hold. Take these jewels at thy lover’s hand,

These golden bracelets, and this wedding ring

Wherewith my husband wooed me, yet a maid,

And be thou king of Libya by my gift.

Exeunt, to the cave.

ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE

Enter Achates, Cupid (as Ascanius), Iarbas, and Anna.

ACHATES.

Did ever men see such a sudden storm,

Or day so clear so suddenly o’ercast?

IARBUS.

I think some fell enchantress dwelleth here,

That can call them forth whenas she please

And dive into black tempest’s treasury

Whenas she means to mask the world with clouds.

ANNA.

In all my life I never knew the like.

It hailed; it snowed; it lightninged all at once.

ACHATES.

I think it was the devil’s revelling night.

There was such hurly-burly in the heavens.

Doubtless Apollo’s axle-tree is cracked,

Or aged Atlas’ shoulder out of joint,

The motion was so over-violent.

IARBUS.

In all this coil, where have ye left the queen?

ASCANIUS.

Nay, where’s my warlike father, can you tell?

ANNA.

Behold where both of them come forth the cave.

IARBUS.

Come forth the cave? Can heaven endure this sight?

Iarbas, curse that unrevenging Jove,

Whose flinty darts slept in Typhoeus’ den,

While these adulterers surfeited with sin.

Nature, why mad’st me not some poisonous beast,

That with the sharpness of my edged sting

I might have staked them both unto the earth,

Whilst they were sporting in this darksome cave?

Enter Aeneas and Dido.

AENEAS.

The air is clear and southern winds are whist.

Come, Dido, let us hasten to the town,

Since gloomy Aeolus doth cease to frown.

DIDO.

Achates and Ascanius, well met.

AENEAS.

Fair Anna, how escaped you from the shower?

ANNA.

As others did, by running to the wood.

DIDO.

But where were you, Iarbas, all this while?

IARBUS.

Not with Aeneas in the ugly cave.

DIDO.

I see Aeneas sticketh in your mind,

But I will soon put by that stumbling block

ACT FOUR, SCENE TWO

Enter Iarbas, to sacrifice.

IARBUS.

Come servants, come; bring forth the sacrifice,

That I may pacify that gloomy Jove,

Whose empty altars have enlarged our ills.

Servants bring in the sacrifice, then exeunt.

Eternal Jove, great master of the clouds,

Father of gladness and all frolic thoughts,

That with thy gloomy hand corrects the heaven

When airy creatures war amongst themselves,

Hear, hear, O hear Iarbas’ plaining prayers,

Whose hideous echoes make the welkin howl

And all the woods ‘Eliza’ to resound!

The woman that thou willed us entertain,

Where, straying in our borders up and down,

She craved a hide of ground to build a town,

With whom we did divide both laws and land,

And all the fruits that plenty else sends forth,

Scorning our loves and royal marriage rites,

Yields up her beauty to a stranger’s bed,

Who, having wrought her shame, is straightway fled.

Now, if thou beest a pitying god of power,

On whom ruth and compassion ever waits,

Redress these wrongs and warn him to his ships,

That now afflicts me with his flattering eyes.

Enter Anna.

ANNA.

How now, Iarbas! At your prayers so hard?

IARBUS.

Ay, Anna. Is there aught you would with me?

ANNA.

Nay, no such weighty business of import

But may be slacked until another time.

Yet, if you would partake with me the cause

Of this devotion that detaineth you,

I would be thankful for such courtesy.

IARBUS.

Anna, against this Trojan do I pray,

Who seeks to rob me of thy sister’s love

And dive into her heart by coloured looks.

ANNA.

Alas, poor king, that labours so in vain

For her that so delighteth in thy pain.

Be ruled by me and seek some other love,

Whose yielding heart may yield thee more relief.

IARBUS.

Mine eye is fixed where fancy cannot start.

O leave me, leave me to my silent thoughts

That register the numbers of my ruth,

And I will either move the thoughtless flint

Or drop out both mine eyes in drizzling tears,

Before my sorrow’s tide have any stint.

ANNA.

I will not leave Iarbas, whom I love,

In this delight of dying pensiveness.

Away with Dido! Anna be thy song,

Anna, that doth admire thee more than heaven.

IARBUS.

I may nor will list to such loathsome change

That intercepts the course of my desire.

Servants, come fetch these empty vessels here,

For I will fly from these alluring eyes

That do pursue my peace where’er it goes.

Exit.

ANNA.

Iarbas, stay! Loving Iarbas, stay,

For I have honey to present thee with.

Hard-hearted, wilt not deign to hear me speak?

I’ll follow thee with outcries ne’ertheless

And strew thy walks with my dishevelled hair.

Exit.

ACT FOUR, SCENE THREE

Enter Aeneas alone.

AENEAS.

Carthage, my friendly host, adieu,

Since destiny doth call me from thy shore.

Hermes this night, descending in a dream,

Hath summoned me to fruitful Italy.

Jove wills it so. My mother wills it so.

Let my Phoenissa grant, and then I go.

Grant she or no, Aeneas must away,

Whose golden fortunes, clogged with courtly ease,

Cannot ascend to fame’s immortal house

Or banquet in bright honour’s burnished hall,

Till he hath furrowed Neptune’s glassy fields

And cut a passage through his topless hills.

Achates, come forth! Sergestus, Ilioneus,

Cloanthus, haste away! Aeneas calls.

Enter Achates, Cloanthus, Sergestus, and Ilioneus.

ACHATES.

What wills our lord, or wherefore did he call?

AENEAS.

The dreams, (brave mates) that did beset my bed,