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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.