_Æn._ Of Troy am I, Æneas 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 plough'd the deep, 220 And made that way my mother Venus led; But of them all scarce seven do anchor safe, And they so wrecked and weltered by the waves, As every tide tilts 'twixt their oaken sides; And all of them, unburdened of their load, Are ballassèd with billows' watery 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. 230 _Ven._ Fortune hath favour'd 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 perish'd in the storm, But are arrivèd safe, not far from hence: And so I leave thee to thy fortune's lot, Wishing good luck unto thy wandering steps. [_Exit._ _Æn._ Achates, 'tis my mother that is fled; 240 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[454] 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. [_Exuent._ SCENE II. _Enter_[455] IARBUS, _followed by_ ILIONEUS, CLOANTHUS,[456] SERGESTUS, _and others_. _Ili._ Follow, ye Trojans, follow this brave lord, And plain to him the sum of your distress. _Iar._ Why, what are you, or wherefore do you sue? _Ili._ Wretches[457] of Troy, envied of the winds, That crave such favour at your honour's feet As poor distressèd 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, 10 Or steal your household Lares from their shrines; Our hands are not prepared to lawless spoil. Nor armèd to offend in any kind; Such force is far from our unweapon'd thoughts Whose fading weal, of victory forsook, Forbids all hope to harbour near our hearts. _Iar._ But tell me, Trojans, Trojans if you be, Unto what fruitful quarters were ye bound, Before that Boreas buckled with[458] your sails?