_Dido._ What? dar'st thou look a lion in the face? _Cup._ I; and outface him too, do what he can. 40 _Anna._ How like his father speaketh he in all! _Æn._ And mought 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. _Iar._ And might I live to see thee shipp'd 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 pursu'd me so. [_Aside._ _Æn._ Stout friend Achates, dost thou know this wood? 50 _Ach._ As I remember, here you shot the deer That saved your famish'd 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. _Æn._ 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 stor'd with such a winter's tale? _Dido._ Æneas, leave these dumps, and let's away. 60 Some to the mountains, some unto the soil,[505] You to the valleys,--thou unto the house. [_Exeunt all except_ IARBAS. _Iar._ I, this it is which wounds me to the death, To see a Phrygian, far-fet[506] o'er the sea, Preferr'd 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 wrongèd with disdain? Revenge me on Æneas or on her? 70 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 80 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._ SCENE IV. _The storm. Enter_ ÆNEAS _and_ DIDO _in the cave, at several times_. _Dido._ Æneas! _Æn._ Dido! _Dido._ Tell me, dear love, how found you out this cave? _Æn._ 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,--O, would I were!