Venus. Such honour, stranger, doe I not affect: 
It is the vse for Turen maides to weare
Their bowe and quiuer in this modest sort,
And suite themselues in purple for the nonce,
That they may trip more lightly ore the lawndes,
And ouertake the tusked Bore in chase. 
But for the land whereof thou doest enquire,
It is the punick kingdome rich and strong,
Adioyning on Agenors stately towne,
The kingly seate of Southerne Libia,
Whereas Sidonian Dido rules as Queene. 
But what are you that aske of me these things? 
Whence may you come, or whither will you goe?

AEn. Of Troy am I, AEneas is my name,
Who driuen by warre from forth my natiue world,
Put sailes to sea to seeke out Italy;
And my diuine descent from sceptred Iove,
With twise twelue Phrigian ships I plowed the deepe,
And made that way my mother Venus led: 
But of them all scarce seuen doe anchor safe,
And they so wrackt and weltred by the waues,
As euery tide tilts twixt their oken sides: 
And all of them vnburdened of their loade,
Are ballassed with billowes watrie weight. 
But haples I, God wot, poore and vnknowne,
Doe trace these Libian deserts all despisde,
Exild forth Europe and wide Asia both,
And haue not any couerture but heauen.

Venus. Fortune hath fauord thee what ere thou be,
In sending thee vnto this curteous Coast: 
A Gods name on and hast thee to the Court,
Where Dido will receiue ye with her smiles: 
And for thy ships which thou supposest lost,
Not one of them hath perisht in the storme,
But are ariued safe not farre from hence: 
And so I leaue thee to thy fortunes lot,
Wishing good lucke vnto thy wandring steps. Exit.

AEn. Achates, tis my mother that is fled,
I know her by the mouings of her feete: 
Stay gentle Venus, flye not from thy sonne,
Too cruell, why wilt thou forsake me thus? 
Or in these shades deceiu’st mine eye so oft? 
Why talke we not together hand in hand? 
And tell our griefes in more familiar termes: 
But thou art gone and leau’st me here alone,
To dull the ayre with my discoursiue moane. Exit.

Enter Illioneus, and Cloanthes.

Illio. Follow ye Troians, follow this braue Lord, And plaine to him the summe of your distresse.

Iar. Why, what are you, or wherefore doe you sewe?

Illio. Wretches of Troy, enuied of the windes,
That craue such fauour at your honors feete,
As poore distressed miserie may pleade: 
Saue, saue, O saue our ships from cruell fire,
That doe complaine the wounds of thousand waues,
And spare our liues whom euery spite pursues. 
We come not we to wrong your Libian Gods,
Or steale your houshold lares from their shrines: 
Our hands are not prepar’d to lawles spoyle,
Nor armed to offend in any kind: 
Such force is farre from our vnweaponed thoughts,
Whose fading weale of victorie forsooke,
Forbids all hope to harbour neere our hearts.