The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 2 (of 3)Marlowe, Christopher
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The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 2 (of 3)
Marlowe, Christopher
English drama -- Early modern and Elizabethan, 1500-1600
_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,-- 170
And yet I hate thee not.--O, if I speak,
I shall betray myself! [_Aside._]--Æneas, come:[490]
We too will go a-hunting in the woods;
But not so much for thee,--thou art but one,--
As for Achates and his followers. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Enter_[491] JUNO _to_ ASCANIUS, _who lies asleep_.
_Juno._ Here lies my hate, Æneas' cursèd brat,
The boy wherein false Destiny delights,
The heir of Fury,[492] the favourite of the Fates,[493]
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, 10
And feed infection with his let-out[494] 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[495] to hurt,
And have no gall at all to grieve my foes!
But lustful Jove and his adulterous child
Shall find it written on confusion's front,
That only Juno rules in Rhamnus town.[496] 20
_Enter_ VENUS.
_Ven._ What should this mean? my doves are back return'd
Who warn me of such danger prest[497] 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 30
Whom kindred and acquaintance co-unites?
_Ven._ Out, hateful hag! thou wouldst have slain my son,
Had not my doves discovered thy intent:
But I will tear thy eyes fro forth thy head,
And feast the birds with their blood-shotten balls,
If thou but lay thy fingers on my boy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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