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.
