Cup. An if my mother go, I'll follow her.
Dido. Why stay'st thou here? thou art no love of mine.
Iar. Iarbas, die, seeing she abandons thee!40
Dido. No; live, Iarbas: What hast thou deserved, That I should say thou art no love of mine? Something thou hast deserved.—Away, I say! Depart from Carthage; come not in my sight.
Iar. Am I not king of rich Gætulia?
Dido. Iarbas, pardon me, and stay a while.
Cup. Mother, look here.
Dido. What tell'st thou me of rich Gætulia? Am not I queen of Libya? then depart.
Iar. I go to feed the humour of my love,50 Yet not from Carthage for a thousand worlds.
Dido. Iarbas!