Are these the sailes that in despight of me,
Packt with the windes to beare Aeneas hence?
Ile hang ye in the chamber where I lye,
Drive if you can my house to Italy:
Ile set the casement open that the windes
May enter in, and once againe conspire
Against the life of me poore
Carthage
Queene:
But though he goe, he stayes in
Carthage
still,
And let rich
Carthage
fleete upon the seas,
So I may have Aeneas in mine armes.
Is this the wood that grew in
Carthage
plaines,
And would be toyling in the watrie billowes,
To rob their mistresse of her Troian guest?
O cursed tree, hadst thou but wit or sense,
To measure how I prize Aeneas love,
Thou wouldst have leapt from out the Sailers hands,
And told me that Aeneas ment to goe:
And yet I blame thee not, thou art but wood.
The water which our Poets terme a Nimph,
Why did it suffer thee to touch her breast,
And shrunke not backe, knowing my love was there?
The water is an Element, no Nimph,
Why should I blame Aeneas for his flight?
O Dido, blame not him, but breake his oares,
These were the instruments that launcht him forth,
Theres not so much as this base tackling too,
But dares to heape up sorrowe to my heart:
Was it not you that hoysed up these sailes?
Why burst you not, and they fell in the seas?
For this will Dido tye ye full of knots,
And sheere ye all asunder with her hands:
Now serve to chastize shipboyes for their faults,
Ye shall no more offend the
Carthage
Queene.
Now let him hang my favours on his masts,
And see if those will serve in steed of sailes:
For tackling, let him take the chaines of gold,
Which I bestowd upon his followers:
In steed of oares, let him use his hands,
And swim to Italy, Ile keepe these sure:
Come beare them in.
Exeunt [attended].
