o haue before I dye.

_AEn._ It is not ought _AEneas_ may achieue?

_Dido._ _AEneas_ no, although his eyes doe pearce.

_AEn._ What, hath _Iarbus_ angred her in ought?
And will she be auenged on his life?

_Dido._ Not angred me, except in angring thee.

_AEn._ Who then of all so cruell may he be,
That should detaine thy eye in his defects?

_Dido._ The man that I doe eye where ere I am,
Whose amorous face like _Pean_ sparkles fire,
When as he buts his beames on _Floras_ bed,
_Prometheus_ hath put on _Cupids_ shape,
And I must perish in his burning armes:
_AEneas_, O _AEneas_, quench these flames.

_AEn._ What ailes my Queene, is she falne sicke of late?

_Dido._ Not sicke my loue, but sicke, I must conceale
The torment, that it bootes me not reueale;
And yet Ile speake, and yet Ile hold my peace,
Doe shame her worst, I will disclose my griefe:
_AEneas_, thou art he, what did I say?
Something it was that now I haue forgot.

_AEn._ What meanes faire _Dido_ by this doubtfull speech?

_Dido._ Nay, nothing, but _AEneas_ loues me not.

_AEn._ _AEneas_ thoughts dare not ascend so high
As _Didos_ heart, which Monarkes might not scale.

_Dido._ It was because I sawe no King like thee,
Whose golden Crowne might ballance my content:
But now that I haue found what to effect,
I followe one that loueth fame for me,
And rather had seeme faire _Sirens_ eyes,
Then to the Carthage Queene that dyes for him.

_AEn._ If that your maiestie can looke so lowe,
As my despised worths, that shun all praise,
With this my hand I giue to you my heart,
And vow by all the Gods of Hospitalitie,
By heauen and earth, and my faire brothers bowe,
By _Paphos_, _Capys_, and the purple Sea,
From whence my radiant mother did descend,
And by this Sword that saued me from the Greekes,
Neuer to leaue these newe vpreared walles,
Whiles _Dido_ liues and rules in _Iunos_ towne,
Neuer to like or loue any but her.

_Dido._ What more then delian musicke doe I heare,
That calles my soule from forth his liuing seate,
To moue vnto the measures of delight:
Kind clowdes that sent forth such a curteous storme,
As made disdaine to flye to fancies lap:
Stoute loue in mine armes make thy _Italy_,
Whose Crowne and kingdome rests at thy commande.
_Sicheus_, not _AEneas_ be thou calde:
The King of _Carthage_, not _Anchises_ sonne:
Hold, take these Iewels at thy Louers hand,
These golden bracelets, and this wedding ring,
Wherewith my husband woo'd me y