_Dido._ Speakes not _Æneas_ 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 Gods: 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, _Æneas_ 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 _Æneas_ 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 _Æneas_ 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 _Æneas_ tackling, oares and sailes. _Dido._ Are these the sailes that in despight of me, Packt with the windes to beare _Æneas_ hence? Ile hang ye in the chamber where I lye, Driue if you can my house to _Italy_: Ile set the casement 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 _Æneas_ 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 _Æneas_ loue, Thou wouldst haue leapt from out the Sailers hands, And told me that _Æneas_ 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 _Æneas_ 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: