Dido. The thing that I will dye before I aske, And yet desire to 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 yet a maide,
And be thou king of Libia, by my guift.