EACE"]

AT LONDON,

Printed, by the Widdowe _Orwin_, for _Thomas Woodcocke_, and
are to be solde at his shop, in Paules Church-yeard, at
the signe of the blacke Beare. 1594.

[Illustration: (Decorative)]

The Tragedie of _Dido_ Queene
_of Carthage._

_Here the Curtaines draw, there is discovered_ Iupiter _dandling_
Ganimed _upon his knee, and_ Mercury _lying asleepe_.

_Iup._ Come gentle _Ganimed_ and play with me,
I loue thee well, say _Iuno_ what she will.

_Gan._ I am much better for your worthles loue,
That will not shield me from her shrewith blowes:
To day when as I fild into your cups,
And held the cloath of pleasance whiles you dranke,
She reacht me such a rap for that I spilde,
As made the bloud run downe about mine eares.

_Iup._ What? dares she strike the darling of my thoughts?
By _Saturnes_ soule, and this earth threatning aire,
That shaken thrise, makes Natures buildings quake,
I vow, if she but once frowne on thee more,
To hang her meteor like twixt heauen and earth,
And bind her hand and foote with golden cordes,
As once I did for harming _Hercules_.

_Gan._ Might I but see that pretie sport a foote,
O how would I with _Helens_ brother laugh,
And bring the Gods to wonder at the game:
Sweet _Iupiter_, if ere I pleasde thine eye,
Or seemed faire walde in with Egles wings,
Grace my immortall beautie with this boone,
And I will spend my time in thy bright armes.

_Iup._ What ist sweet wagge I should deny thy youth?
Whose face reflects such pleasure to mine eyes,
As I exhal'd with thy fire darting beames,
Haue oft driuen backe the horses of the night.
When as they would haue hal'd thee from my sight:
Sit on my knee, and call for thy content,
Controule proud Fate, and cut the thred of time,
Why are not all the Gods at thy commaund,
And heauen and earth the bounds of thy delight?
_Vulcan_ shall daunce to make thee laughing sport,
And my nine Daughters sing when thou art sad,
From _Iunos_ bird Ile pluck her spotted pride,
To make thee fannes wherewith to coole thy face,
And _Venus_ Swannes shall shed their siluer downe,
To sweeten out the slumbers of thy bed:
_Hermes_ no more shall shew the world his wings,
If that thy fancie in his feathers dwell,
But as this one Ile teare them all from him,
Doe thou but say their colour pleaseth me:
Hold here my little loue these linked gems,
My _Iuno_ ware vpon her marriage day,
Put thou about thy necke my owne sweet heart,
And tricke th