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THE TRAGEDY OF DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE.
act. I.
Ven. Now is the time for me to play my part.—
[Aside.
Ho, young men! saw you, as you came,[1]
Any of all my sisters wandering here,
Having a quiver girded to her side,
And clothèd in a spotted leopard's skin?
Æn. I neither saw nor heard of any such.
But what may I, fair virgin, call your name,
Whose looks set forth no mortal form to view,
Nor speech bewrays aught human in thy birth?
Thou art a goddess that delud'st our eyes,
And shroud'st thy beauty in this borrow'd shape;
But whether thou the Sun's bright sister be,
Or one of chaste Diana's fellow-nymphs,
Live happy in the height of all content,
And lighten our extremes with this one boon,
As to instruct us under what good heaven
We breathe as now, and what this world is call'd
On which by tempests' fury we are cast:
Tell us, O, tell us, that are ignorant!
And this right hand shall make thy altars crack
With mountain-heaps of milk-white sacrifice.
Ven. Such honour, stranger, do I not affect:
It is the use for Tyrian[2] maids to wear
Their bow and quiver in this modest sort,
And suit themselves in purple for the nonce,[3]
That they may trip more lightly o'er the lawnds,[4]
And overtake the tusked boar in chase.
But for the land whereof thou dost inquire,
It is the Punic kingdom, rich and strong,
Adjoining on Agenor's stately town,
The kingly seat of Southern Libya,
Whereas[5] Sidonian Dido rules as queen.
But what are you that ask of me these things?
Whence may you come, or whither will you go?
Æn. Of Troy am I, Æneas is my name;
Who, driven by war from forth my native world,
Put sails to sea to seek out Italy;
And my divine descent from sceptred Jove:
With twice twelve Phrygian ships I plough'd the deep,
And made that way my mother Venus led;
But of them all scarce seven do anchor safe,
And they so wreck'd and welter'd by the waves,
As every tide tilts 'twist their oaken sides;
And all of them, unburden'd of their load,
Are ballassèd[6] with billows' watery weight.
But hapless I, God wot, poor and unknown,
Do trace these Libyan deserts, all despis'd,
Exil'd forth Europe and wide Asia both,
And have not any coverture but heaven.
Ven. Fortune hath favour'd thee, whate'er thou be,
In sending thee unto this courteous coast.
A' God's name, on! and haste thee to the court,
Where Dido will receive ye with her smiles;
And for thy ships, which thou supposest lost,
Not one of them hath perish'd in the storm,
But are arrivèd safe, not far from hence:
And so, I leave thee to thy fortune's lot,
Wishing good luck unto thy wandering steps.
[Exit.
Æn. Achates, 'tis my mother that is fled;
I know her by the movings of her feet.—[7]
Stay, gentle Venus, fly not from thy son!
Too cruel, why wilt thou forsake me thus,
Or in these shades[8] deceiv'st mine eyes so oft?
Why talk we not together hand in hand,
And tell our griefs in more familiar terms?
But thou art gone, and leav'st me here alone,
To dull the air with my discoursive moan.
[Exeunt.
Enter Iarbas,[9] followed by Ilioneus, Cloanthus,[10] Sergestus, and others.[11]
Ili. Follow, ye Trojans, follow this brave lord,
And plain[12] to him the sum of your distress.
Iar. Why, what are you, or wherefore do you sue?
Ili. Wretches of Troy, envied of the winds,[13]
That crave such favour at your honour's feet
As poor distressèd misery may plead:
Save, save, O, save our ships from cruel fire,
That do complain the wounds of thousand waves,
And spare our lives, whom every spite pursues!
We come not, we, to wrong your Libyan gods,
Or steal your household Lares from their shrines;
[Aside.
Ho, young men! saw you, as you came,[1]
Any of all my sisters wandering here,
Having a quiver girded to her side,
And clothèd in a spotted leopard's skin?
Æn. I neither saw nor heard of any such.
But what may I, fair virgin, call your name,
Whose looks set forth no mortal form to view,
Nor speech bewrays aught human in thy birth?
Thou art a goddess that delud'st our eyes,
And shroud'st thy beauty in this borrow'd shape;
But whether thou the Sun's bright sister be,
Or one of chaste Diana's fellow-nymphs,
Live happy in the height of all content,
And lighten our extremes with this one boon,
As to instruct us under what good heaven
We breathe as now, and what this world is call'd
On which by tempests' fury we are cast:
Tell us, O, tell us, that are ignorant!
And this right hand shall make thy altars crack
With mountain-heaps of milk-white sacrifice.
Ven. Such honour, stranger, do I not affect:
It is the use for Tyrian[2] maids to wear
Their bow and quiver in this modest sort,
And suit themselves in purple for the nonce,[3]
That they may trip more lightly o'er the lawnds,[4]
And overtake the tusked boar in chase.
But for the land whereof thou dost inquire,
It is the Punic kingdom, rich and strong,
Adjoining on Agenor's stately town,
The kingly seat of Southern Libya,
Whereas[5] Sidonian Dido rules as queen.
But what are you that ask of me these things?
Whence may you come, or whither will you go?
Æn. Of Troy am I, Æneas is my name;
Who, driven by war from forth my native world,
Put sails to sea to seek out Italy;
And my divine descent from sceptred Jove:
With twice twelve Phrygian ships I plough'd the deep,
And made that way my mother Venus led;
But of them all scarce seven do anchor safe,
And they so wreck'd and welter'd by the waves,
As every tide tilts 'twist their oaken sides;
And all of them, unburden'd of their load,
Are ballassèd[6] with billows' watery weight.
But hapless I, God wot, poor and unknown,
Do trace these Libyan deserts, all despis'd,
Exil'd forth Europe and wide Asia both,
And have not any coverture but heaven.
Ven. Fortune hath favour'd thee, whate'er thou be,
In sending thee unto this courteous coast.
A' God's name, on! and haste thee to the court,
Where Dido will receive ye with her smiles;
And for thy ships, which thou supposest lost,
Not one of them hath perish'd in the storm,
But are arrivèd safe, not far from hence:
And so, I leave thee to thy fortune's lot,
Wishing good luck unto thy wandering steps.
[Exit.
Æn. Achates, 'tis my mother that is fled;
I know her by the movings of her feet.—[7]
Stay, gentle Venus, fly not from thy son!
Too cruel, why wilt thou forsake me thus,
Or in these shades[8] deceiv'st mine eyes so oft?
Why talk we not together hand in hand,
And tell our griefs in more familiar terms?
But thou art gone, and leav'st me here alone,
To dull the air with my discoursive moan.
[Exeunt.
Enter Iarbas,[9] followed by Ilioneus, Cloanthus,[10] Sergestus, and others.[11]
Ili. Follow, ye Trojans, follow this brave lord,
And plain[12] to him the sum of your distress.
Iar. Why, what are you, or wherefore do you sue?
Ili. Wretches of Troy, envied of the winds,[13]
That crave such favour at your honour's feet
As poor distressèd misery may plead:
Save, save, O, save our ships from cruel fire,
That do complain the wounds of thousand waves,
And spare our lives, whom every spite pursues!
We come not, we, to wrong your Libyan gods,
Or steal your household Lares from their shrines;
- ↑ came] Qy. "came along"?
- ↑ Tyrian] Old ed. "Turen."
- ↑ for the nonce] i.e. for the occasion.
- ↑ lawnds] i.e. lawns.
- ↑ whereas] i.e. Where.
- ↑ ballassèd] i.e. ballasted.
- ↑ I know her by the movings of her feet] Every reader will of course perceive that these words answer to "Et vera incessu patuit dea," in Virgil's celebrated description of Venus reassuming the marks of divinity (Æn. 1. 405),—a description, of which our poet did not venture to borrow more, lest the audience should have smiled at its inappropriateness to the actor who "boy'd" the goddess.
- ↑ shades] "Quid natum totieus, crudelis tu quoque, falsis
- Ludis imaginibus?" Virgil, Æn. 1. 407.
- ↑ Enter Iarbas, &c.] Scene, within the walls of Carthage.
- ↑ Cloanthus] Old ed. here and elsewhere "Cloanthes."
- ↑ and others] Not in old ed.
- ↑ plain] i.e. complain, piteously set forth.
- ↑ envied] i.e. hated, having ill-will borne them by the winds.
