And then the darksome night drew on,
And twinkling starres the skye bespred,
When he his dolefull tale had done,
And every one was layd in bedd:
Where they full sweetly tooke their rest, 35
Save only Dido's boyling brest.
This silly woman never slept,
But in her chamber, all alone,
As one unhappye, alwayes wept,
And to the walls shee made her mone; 40
That she shold still desire in vaine
The thing she never must obtaine.
And thus in grieffe she spent the night,
Till twinkling starres the skye were fled,
And Ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, 45
Through misty cloudes appeared red;
Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan shipps were gone.
And then the queene with bloody knife
Did arme, her hart as hard as stone; 50
Yet, something loth to loose her life,
In woefull wise she made her mone;
And, rowling on her carefull bed,
With sighes and sobbes, these words shee sayd:
"O wretched Dido queene!" quoth shee, 55
"I see thy end approacheth neare;
For hee is fled away from thee,
Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:
What, is he gone, and passed by?
O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. 60
"Though reason says thou shouldst forbeare,
And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke,
Yet fancy bids thee not to fear,
Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke.
Come death," quoth shee, "resolve my smart!"— 65
And with those words shee peerced her hart.
When death had pierced the tender hart
Of Dido, Carthaginian queene,
Whose bloudy knife did end the smart,
Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene, 70
Æneas being shipt and gone,
Whose flattery caused all her mone,
Her funerall most costly made,
And all things finisht mournfullye,
Her body fine in mold was laid, 75
Where itt consumed speedilye:
Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde,
Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.
Then was Æneas in an ile
In Grecya, where he stayd long space, 80
Whereas her sister in short while
Writt to him to his vile disgrace;
In speeches bitter to his mind
Shee told him plaine he was unkind.
"False-harted wretch," quoth shee, "thou art; 85
And traiterouslye thou hast betraid
Unto thy lure a gentle hart,
Which unto thee much welcome made;
My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,
Whose folly bred her deere annoy. 90