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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

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.