The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Dido


Act: 1 Scene: 1
You sonnes of care, companions of my course,
Priams misfortune followes us by sea,
And Helens rape doth haunt ye at the heeles.
How many dangers have we over past?
Both barking Scilla, and the sounding Rocks,
The Cyclops shelves, and grim Ceranias seate
Have you oregone, and yet remaine alive?
Pluck up your hearts, since fate still rests our friend,
And chaunging heavens may those good daies returne,
Which Pergama did vaunt in all her pride.
Alas sweet boy, thou must be still a while,
Till we have fire to dresse the meate we kild:
Gentle Achates, reach the Tinder boxe,
That we may make a fire to warme us with,
And rost our new found victuals on this shoare.
Hold, take this candle and goe light a fire,
You shall have leaves and windfall bowes enow
Neere to these woods, to rost your meate withall:
Ascanius, goe and drie thy drenched lims,
Whiles I with my Achates roave abroad,
To know what coast the winde hath driven us on,
Or whether men or beasts inhabite it.
I neither saw nor heard of any such:
But what may I faire Virgin call your name?
Whose lookes set forth no mortall forme to view,
Nor speech bewraies ought humaine in thy birth,
Thou art a Goddesse that delud'st our eyes,
And shrowdes thy beautie in this borrowd shape:
But whether thou the Sunnes bright Sister be,
Or one of chast Dianas fellow Nimphs,
Live happie in the height of all content,
And lighten our extreames with this one boone,
As to instruct us under what good heaven
We breathe as now, and what this world is calde,
On which by tempests furie we are cast.
Tell us, O tell us that are ignorant,
And this right hand shall make thy Altars crack
With mountaine heapes of milke white Sacrifize.
Of Troy am I, Aeneas is my name,
Who driven by warre from forth my native world,
Put sailes to sea to seeke out Italy ,
And my divine descent from sceptred Jove :
With twise twelve Phrigian ships I plowed the deepe,
And made that way my mother Venus led:
But of them all scarce seven doe anchor safe,
And they so wrackt and weltred by the waves,
As every tide tilts twixt their oken sides:
And all of them unburdened of their loade,
Are ballassed with billowes watrie weight.
But haples I, God wot, poore and unknowne,
Doe trace these Libian deserts all despisde,
Exild forth Europe and wide Asia both,
And have not any coverture but heaven.
Achates, tis my mother that is fled,
I know her by the movings of her feete:
Stay gentle Venus, flye not from thy sonne,
Too cruell, why wilt thou forsake me thus?
Or in these shades deceiv'st mine eye so oft?
Why talke we not together hand in hand?
And tell our griefes in more familiar termes:
But thou art gone and leav'st me here alone,
To dull the ayre with my discoursive moane.

Act: 2 Scene: 1
Where am I now? these should be Carthage walles.
O my Achates, Theban Niobe,
Who for her sonnes death wept out life and breath,
And drie with griefe was turnd into a stone,
Had not such passions in her head as I. [Sees Priams statue.]
Me thinkes that towne there should be Troy, yon Idas hill,
There Zanthus streame, because here's Priamus,
And when I know it is not, then I dye.
O yet this stone doth make Aeneas weepe,
And would my prayers (as Pigmalions did)
Could give it life, that under his conduct
We might saile backe to Troy, and be revengde
On these hard harted Grecians, which rejoyce
That nothing now is left of Priamus:
O Priamus is left and this is he,
Come, come abourd, pursue the hatefull Greekes.
Achates though mine eyes say this is stone,
Yet thinkes my minde that this is Priamus:
And when my grieved heart sighes and sayes no,
Then would it leape 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.
Ah Troy is sackt, and Priamus is dead,
And why should poore Aeneas be alive?
Lords of this towne, or whatsoever stile
Belongs unto your name, vouchsafe of ruth
To tell us who inhabits this faire towne,
What kind of people, and who governes them:
For we are strangers driven on this shore,
And scarcely know within what Clime we are.
Achates, speake, for I am overjoyed.
Sergestus, Illioneus and the rest,
Your sight amazde me, O what destinies
Have brought my sweete companions in such plight?
O tell me, for I long to be resolv'd.
Well may I view her, but she sees not me.
Sometime I was a Troian, mightie Queene:
But Troy is not, what shall I say I am?
This is no seate for one thats comfortles,
May it please your grace to let Aeneas waite:
For though my birth be great, my fortunes meane,
Too meane to be companion to a Queene.
This place beseemes me not, O pardon me.
In all humilitie I thanke your grace.
And who so miserable as Aeneas is?
O Priamus, O Troy, oh Hecuba!
A wofull tale bids Dido to unfould,
Whose memorie like pale deaths stony mace,
Beates forth my senses from this troubled soule,
And makes Aeneas sinke at Didos feete.
Then speake Aeneas with Achilles tongue,
And Dido and you Carthaginian Peeres
Heare me, but yet with Mirmidons harsh eares,
Daily inur'd to broyles and Massacres,
Lest you be mov'd too much with my sad tale.
The Grecian souldiers tired with ten yeares warre,
Began to crye, let us unto our ships,
Troy is invincible, why stay we here?
With whose outcryes Atrides being apal'd,
Summoned the Captaines to his princely tent,
Who looking on the scarres we Troians gave,
Seeing the number of their men decreast,
And the remainder weake and out of heart,
Gave up their voyces to dislodge the Campe,
And so in troopes all marcht to Tenedos:
Where when they came, Ulysses on the sand
Assayd with honey words to turne them backe:
And as he spoke, to further his entent
The windes did drive huge billowes to the shoare,
And heaven was darkned with tempestuous clowdes:
Then he alleag'd the Gods would have them stay,
And prophecied Troy should be overcome:
And therewithall he calde false Sinon forth,
A man compact of craft and perjurie,
Whose ticing tongue was made of Hermes pipe,
To force an hundred watchfull eyes to sleepe:
And him, Epeus having made the horse,
With sacrificing wreathes upon his head,
Ulysses sent to our unhappie towne:
Who groveling in the mire of Zanthus bankes ,
His hands bound at his backe, and both his eyes
Turnd up to heaven as one resolv'd to dye,
Our Phrigian shepherds haled within the gates,
And brought unto the Court of Priamus:
To whom he used action so pitifull,
Lookes so remorcefull, vowes so forcible,
As therewithall the old man overcome,
Kist him, imbrast him, and unloosde his bands,
And then—O Dido, pardon me.
O th'inchaunting words of that base slave,
Made him to thinke Epeus pine-tree Horse
A sacrifize t'appease Minervas wrath:
The rather for that one Laocoon
Breaking a speare upon his hollow breast,
Was with two winged Serpents stung to death.
Whereat agast, we were commanded straight
With reverence to draw it into Troy.
In which unhappie worke was I employd,
These hands did helpe to hale it to the gates,
Through which it could not enter twas so huge.
O had it never entred, Troy had stood.
But Priamus impatient of delay,
Inforst a wide breach in that rampierd wall,
Which thousand battering Rams could never pierce,
And so came in this fatall instrument:
At whose accursed feete as overjoyed,
We banquetted till overcome with wine,
Some surfetted, and others soundly slept.
Which Sinon viewing, causde the Greekish spyes
To hast to Tenedos and tell the Campe:
Then he unlockt the Horse, and suddenly
From out his entrailes, Neoptolemus
Setting his speare upon the ground, leapt forth,
And after him a thousand Grecians more,
In whose sterne faces shin'd the quenchles fire,
That after burnt the pride of Asia.
By this the Campe was come unto the walles,
And through the breach did march into the streetes,
Where meeting with the rest, kill kill they cryed.
Frighted with this confused noyse, I rose,
And looking from a turret, might behold
Yong infants swimming in their parents bloud,
Headles carkasses piled up in heapes,
Virgins halfe dead dragged by their golden haire,
And with maine force flung on a ring of pikes,
Old men with swords thrust through their aged sides,
Kneeling for mercie to a Greekish lad,
Who with steele Pol-axes dasht out their braines.
Then buckled I mine armour, drew my sword,
And thinking to goe downe, came Hectors ghost
With ashie visage, blewish sulphure eyes,
His armes torne from his shoulders, and his breast
Furrowd with wounds, and that which made me weepe,
Thongs at his heeles, by which Achilles horse
Drew him in triumph through the Greekish Campe,
Burst from the earth, crying, Aeneas fiye,
Troy is a fire, the Grecians have the towne.
Yet flung I forth, and desperate of my life,
Ran in the thickest throngs, and with this sword
Sent many of their savadge ghosts to hell.
At last came Pirrhus fell and full of ire,
His harnesse dropping bloud, and on his speare
The mangled head of Priams yongest sonne,
And after him his band of Mirmidons,
With balles of wilde fire in their murdering pawes,
Which made the funerall flame that burnt faire Troy:
All which hemd me about, crying, this is he.
My mother Venus jealous of my health,
Convaid me from their crooked nets and bands:
So I escapt the furious Pirrhus wrath:
Who then ran to the pallace of the King,
And at Joves Altar finding Priamus,
About whose withered necke hung Hecuba,
Foulding his hand in hers, and joyntly both
Beating their breasts and falling on the ground,
He with his faulchions poynt raisde up at once,
And with Megeras eyes stared in their face,
Threatning a thousand deaths at every glaunce.
To whom the aged King thus trembling spoke:
Achilles sonne, remember what I was,
Father of fiftie sonnes, but they are slaine,
Lord of my fortune, but my fortunes turnd,
King of this Citie, 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 mov'd at all, but smiling at his teares,
This butcher whil'st his hands were yet held up,
Treading upon his breast, strooke off his hands.
At which the franticke Queene leapt on his face,
And in his eyelids hanging by the nayles,
A little while prolong'd her husbands life:
At last the souldiers puld her by the heeles,
And swong her howling in the emptie ayre,
Which sent an eccho to the wounded King:
Whereat he lifted up his bedred lims,
And would have grappeld with Achilles sonne,
Forgetting both his want of strength and hands,
Which he disdaining whiskt his sword about,
And with the wind thereof the King fell downe:
Then from the navell to the throat at once,
He ript old Priam: at whose latter gaspe
Joves marble statue gan to bend the brow,
As lothing Pirrhus for this wicked act:
Yet he undaunted tooke his fathers flagge,
And dipt it in the old Kings chill cold bloud,
And then in triumph ran into the streetes,
Through which he could not passe for slaughtred men:
So leaning on his sword he stood stone still,
Viewing the fire wherewith rich Ilion burnt.
By this I got my father on my backe,
This young boy in mine armes, and by the hand
Led faire Creusa my beloved wife,
When thou Achates with thy sword mad'st way,
And we were round inviron'd with the Greekes:
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 sawe Cassandra sprauling in the streetes,
Whom Ajax ravisht in Dianas Fane,
Her cheekes swolne with sighes, her haire all rent,
Whom I tooke up to beare unto our ships:
But suddenly the Grecians followed us,
And I alas, was forst to let her lye.
Then got we to our ships, and being abourd,
Polixena cryed out, Aeneas stay,
The Greekes pursue me, stay and take me in.
Moved with her voyce, I lept into the sea,
Thinking to beare her on my backe abourd,
For all our ships were launcht into the deepe:
And as I swomme, she standing on the shoare,
Was by the cruell Mirmidons surprizd,
And after by that Pirrhus sacrifizde.
Achates speake, sorrow hath tired me quite.

Act: 3 Scene: 1
I understand your highnesse sent for me.
So much have I receiv'd at Didos hands,
As without blushing I can aske no more:
Yet Queene of Affricke, are my ships unrigd,
My Sailes all rent in sunder with the winde,
My Oares broken, and my Tackling lost,
Yea all my Navie split with Rockes and Shelfes:
Nor Sterne nor Anchor have our maimed Fleete,
Our Masts the furious windes strooke over bourd:
Which piteous wants if Dido will supplie,
We will account her author of our lives.
Wherefore would Dido have Aeneas stay?
I this in Greece when Paris stole fair Helen.
No Madame, but it seemes that these are Kings.
O happie shall he be whom Dido loves.

Act: 3 Scene: 3
But love and duetie led him on perhaps,
To presse beyond acceptance to your sight.
And mought I live to see him sacke rich Thebes,
And bade his speare with Grecian Princes heads,
Then would I wish me with Anchises Tombe,
And dead to honour that hath brought me up.
Stoute friend Achates, doest thou know this wood?
O how these irksome labours now delight,
And overjoy my thoughts with their escape:
Who would not undergoe all kind of toyle,
To be well stor'd with such a winters tale?

Act: 3 Scene: 4
Dido.
By chance sweete Queene, as Mars and Venus met.
Why, what is it that Dido may desire
And not obtaine, be it in humaine power?
What, hath Iarbus angred her in ought?
And will she be avenged on his life?
Who then of all so cruell may he be,
That should detaine thy eye in his defects?
What ailes my Queene, is she falne sicke of late?
What meanes faire Dido by this doubtfull speech?
Aeneas thoughts dare not ascend so high
As Didos heart, which Monarkes might not scale.
If that your majestie can looke so lowe,
As my despised worts, that shun all praise,
With this my hand I give to you my heart,
And vow by all the Gods of Hospitalitie,
By heaven and earth, and my faire others bowe,
By Paphos, Capys, and the purple Sea,
From whence my radiant mother did descend,
And by this Sword that saved me from the Greekes,
Never to leave these newe upreared walles,
Whiles Dido lives and rules in Junos towne,
Never to like or love any but her.

Act: 4 Scene: 1
The ayre is deere, and Southerne windes are whist,
Come Dido, let us hasten to the towne,
Since gloomie Aeolus doth cease to frowne.
Faire Anna, how escapt you from the shower?

Act: 4 Scene: 3
Carthage, my friendly host adue,
Since destinie doth call me from thy shoare:
Hermes this night descending in a dreame,
Hath summond me to fruitfull Italy:
Jove wils it so, my mother wils it so:
Let my Phenissa graunt, and then I goe:
Graunt she or no, Aeneas must away,
Whose golden fortunes clogd with courtly ease,
Cannot ascend to Fames immortall house,
Or banquet in bright honors burnisht hall,
Till he hath furrowed Neptunes glassie fieldes,
And cut passage through his toples hilles:
Achates come forth, Sergestus, Illioneus,
Cloanthus, haste away, Aeneas calles.
The dreames that did beset my bed
When sleepe but newly had imbrast the night
Commaunds me leave these unrenowmed reames,
Whereas Nobilitie abhors to stay,
And none but base Aeneas will abide:
Abourd, abourd, since Fates doe bid abourd,
And slice the Sea with sable coloured ships,
On whom the nimble windes may all day waight,
And follow them as footemen through the deepe:
Yet Dido casts her eyes like anchors out,
To stay my Fleete from loosing forth the Bay:
Come backe, come backe, I heare her crye a farre,
And let me linke thy bodie to my lips,
That tyed together by the striving tongues,
We may as one saile into Italy
Troians abourd, and I will follow you,
[Exeunt omnes, manet Aeneas.]
I fame would goe, yet beautie calles me backe:
To leave her so and not once say farewell,
Were to transgresse against all lawes of love:
But if I use such ceremonious thankes,
As parting friends accustome on the shoare,
Her silver armes will coll me round about,
And teares of pearle, crye stay, Aeneas, stay:
Each word she sayes will then containe a Crowne,
And every speech be ended with a kisse:
I may not dure this female drudgerie,
To sea Aeneas, finde out Italy.

Act: 4 Scene: 4
O princely Dido, give me leave to speake,
I went to take my farewell of Achates.
The sea is rough, the windes blow to the shoare.
Hath not the Carthage Queene mine onely sonne?
Thinkes Dido I will goe and leave him here?
This kisse shall be faire Didos punishment.
How vaine am I to weare this Diadem,
And beare this golden Scepter in my hand?
A Burgonet of steele, and not a Crowne,
A Sword, and not a Scepter fits Aeneas.
O Dido, patronesse of all our lives,
When I leave thee, death be my punishment,
Swell raging seas, frowne wayward destinies ,
Blow windes, threaten ye Rockes and sandie shelfes,
This is the harbour that Aeneas seekes,
Lets see what tempests can anoy me now.
I, and unlesse the destinies be false,
I shall be planted in as rich a land.
Then here in me shall flourish Priams race,
And thou and I Achates, for revenge,
For Troy, for Priam, for his fiftie sonnes,
Our kinsmens lives, and thousand guiltles soules,
Will leade an hoste against the hatefull Greekes,
And fire proude Lacedemon ore their heads.
Exit [with Troians].

Act: 5 Scene: 1
Triumph, my mates, our travels are at end,
Here will Aeneas build a statelier Troy,
Then that which grim Atrides overthrew:
Carthage shall vaunt her pettie walles no more,
For I will grace them with a fairer frame,
And clad her in a Chrystall liverie,
Wherein the day may evermore delight:
From golden India Ganges will I fetch,
Whose wealthie streames may waite upon her towers,
And triple wise intrench her round about:
The Sunne from Egypt shall rich odors bring,
Wherewith his burning beames like labouring Bees,
That bade their thighes with Hyblas honeys spoyles,
Shall here unburden their exhaled sweetes,
And plant our pleasant suburbes with her fumes.
Not past foure thousand paces at the most.
That have I not determinde with my selfe.
Nay, I will haue it calde Anchisaeon,
Of my old fathers name.
Whom doe I see, Joves winged messenger?
Welcome to Carthage new erected towne.
This was my mother that beguild the Queene,
And made me take my brother for my sonne:
No marvell Dido though thou be in love,
That daylie dandlest Cupid in thy armes:
Welcome sweet child, where hast thou been this long?
Sergestus, beare him hence unto our ships,
Lest Dido spying him keepe him for a pledge.
How should I put into the raging deepe,
Who have no sailes nor tackling for my ships?
What, would the Gods have me, Deucalion like,
Flote up and downe where ere the billowes drive?
Though she repairde my fleete and gave me ships,
Yet hath she tane away my oares and masts,
And left me neither saile nor sterne abourd.
Iarbus, I am cleane besides my selfe,
Jove hath heapt on me such a desperate charge,
Which neither art nor reason may atchieve,
Nor I devise by what meanes to contrive.
With speede he bids me saile to Italy,
When as I want both rigging for my fleete,
And also furniture for these my men.
Thankes good Iarbus for thy friendly ayde,
Achates and the rest shall waite on thee,
Whil'st I rest thankfull for this curtesie.
Exit Iarbus and Aeneas traine.
Now will I haste unto Lavinian shoare,
And raise a new foundation to old Troy,
Witnes the Gods, and witnes heaven and earth,
How loth I am to leave these Libian bounds,
But that eternall Jupiter commands.
O pardon me, if I resolve thee why:
Aeneas will not fame with his deare love,
I must from hence: this day swift Mercury
When I was laying a platforme for these walies,
Sent from his father Jove, appeard to me,
And in his name rebukt me bitterly,
For lingering here, neglecting Italy.
I am commaunded by immortall Jove,
To leave this towne and passe to Italy,
And therefore must of force.
Not from my heart, for I can hardly goe,
And yet I may not stay, Dido farewell.
Then let me goe and never say farewell?
O Queene of Carthage, wert thou ugly blacke,
Aeneas could not choose but hold thee deare,
Yet must he not gainsay the Gods behest.
Desine meque tuis incendere teque querelis,
Italiam non sponte sequor.
In vaine my love thou spendst thy fainting breath,
If words might move me I were overcome.