I, this it is which wounds me to the death,
To see a Phrigian far fet
on the sea,
Preferd before a man of majestie:
O love, O hate, O cruell womens hearts,
That imitate the Moone in every chaunge,
And like the Planets ever love to raunge:
What shall I doe thus wronged with disdaine?
Revenge me on Aeneas, or on her:
On her? fond man, that were to warre gainst heaven,
And with one shaft provoke ten thousand darts:
This Troians end will be thy envies aime,
Whose bloud will reconcile thee to content,
And make love drunken with thy sweete desire:
But Dido that now holdeth him so deare,
Will dye with very tidings of his death:
But time will discontinue her content,
And mould her minde unto newe fancies shapes:
O God of heaven, turne the hand of fate
Unto that happie day of my delight,
And then, what then? Iarbus shall but love:
So doth he now, though not with equall game,
That resteth in the rivall of thy paine,
Who nere will cease to soare till he be slaine.
