Victorious Scipio , Carthage fatal foe,
The scourge of Affrick, and the glore of Rome,
Whose chiefest drift and aime is t' haue me goe,
T' attend his triumphes vainely shall consume,
Those idle hopes by which he doth presume,
With my disgrace, to grace his high renoune,
In his proud entry, to that more proud towne.
For why my better destiny now saies,
From Affrick, Europe shall no way deuide,
This wretched remnant of my worser daies,
The best being spent already here in pride:
How can it iustly be to me denide?
But as kinde Affrick, gaue me life and beeing,
To her againe I giue her owne, I dying.
Then O deere country! yet in loue receaue,
This hatefull life that still your harme procur'd,
And in compassion grant my bones a graue:
Which while I breath'd your quiet still iniur'd,
Wherefore from hence that you may rest secur'd:
Deere soyle disdaine not such a small request,
That breeds thy peace, and my desired rest.
Yet one thing let my dying ghost intreat,
(Which to my griefe thy ruine doth presage)
Liue still with Rome, and Romans at debate,
Let armes gainst armes, rage be oppos'd to rage:
Kil, murther al, forbeare no sexe, no age.
Agree at last, and that wil be to soone,
When either Rome, or Carthage is vndone.
To thee then freely, now I drinke my last,
With that the poyson to her head she hied,
And while her lookes she doth about her cast,
Least any had this act of hers discried:
Her staring eyes vnwares by chance espied,
The wofull story of Queene Didoes fall,
Drawne by some curious pensel on the wal.
Which with attention she remarkes and viewes,
Wondring the beauty of the work-mans art,
Who in a thousand strange and diuers hewes
Of choicest colours had discharg'd his part,
All was so portrayd in this matchlesse Chart,
That liueles shadowes liuing bodies seem'd,
The paynter had each lineament so lim'd.
Æneas Nauie on the wauing Mayne,
Spred forth their proud sayles for to catch the aire,
Here sweld a billow, there it fel againe:
A thousand Daulphins skip vp here and there,
The mariners ay two and two by paire,
With supple palmes did span their heauie oares,
At whose sad strokes the wounded ocean roares.
High in a turret wretched Dido stood,
For to behold her faithlesse louers flight,
From whose faire eyes distil'd a christall flood
Of brinish teares when she beheld that sight,
Each thing was fram'd so curiously and right,
That whatsoeuer was to th' eyes presented,
Seem'd in effect farre rather, then invented.
A little lower did present to view,
The saddest obiect in this matchlesse frame:
There one might see how in despaire she drew
The cruell sword, then fell vpon the same.
O how the streames of purple blood foorth came!
From which, as it had bin yet warme, did flie,
A little smoke which purld into the skie.
Looke how a rose which from the stalke is cropt,
Leaues here and there some blossomes on the ground,
So here and there the place was all bedropt
With her vermilion bloud about her round:
The Painters skill in painting of her wound
Seem'd most diuine and exquisit indeed,
For still there-from the drops yet seem'd to bleed.
The scourge of Affrick, and the glore of Rome,
Whose chiefest drift and aime is t' haue me goe,
T' attend his triumphes vainely shall consume,
Those idle hopes by which he doth presume,
With my disgrace, to grace his high renoune,
In his proud entry, to that more proud towne.
For why my better destiny now saies,
From Affrick, Europe shall no way deuide,
This wretched remnant of my worser daies,
The best being spent already here in pride:
How can it iustly be to me denide?
But as kinde Affrick, gaue me life and beeing,
To her againe I giue her owne, I dying.
Then O deere country! yet in loue receaue,
This hatefull life that still your harme procur'd,
And in compassion grant my bones a graue:
Which while I breath'd your quiet still iniur'd,
Wherefore from hence that you may rest secur'd:
Deere soyle disdaine not such a small request,
That breeds thy peace, and my desired rest.
Yet one thing let my dying ghost intreat,
(Which to my griefe thy ruine doth presage)
Liue still with Rome, and Romans at debate,
Let armes gainst armes, rage be oppos'd to rage:
Kil, murther al, forbeare no sexe, no age.
Agree at last, and that wil be to soone,
When either Rome, or Carthage is vndone.
To thee then freely, now I drinke my last,
With that the poyson to her head she hied,
And while her lookes she doth about her cast,
Least any had this act of hers discried:
Her staring eyes vnwares by chance espied,
The wofull story of Queene Didoes fall,
Drawne by some curious pensel on the wal.
Which with attention she remarkes and viewes,
Wondring the beauty of the work-mans art,
Who in a thousand strange and diuers hewes
Of choicest colours had discharg'd his part,
All was so portrayd in this matchlesse Chart,
That liueles shadowes liuing bodies seem'd,
The paynter had each lineament so lim'd.
Æneas Nauie on the wauing Mayne,
Spred forth their proud sayles for to catch the aire,
Here sweld a billow, there it fel againe:
A thousand Daulphins skip vp here and there,
The mariners ay two and two by paire,
With supple palmes did span their heauie oares,
At whose sad strokes the wounded ocean roares.
High in a turret wretched Dido stood,
For to behold her faithlesse louers flight,
From whose faire eyes distil'd a christall flood
Of brinish teares when she beheld that sight,
Each thing was fram'd so curiously and right,
That whatsoeuer was to th' eyes presented,
Seem'd in effect farre rather, then invented.
A little lower did present to view,
The saddest obiect in this matchlesse frame:
There one might see how in despaire she drew
The cruell sword, then fell vpon the same.
O how the streames of purple blood foorth came!
From which, as it had bin yet warme, did flie,
A little smoke which purld into the skie.
Looke how a rose which from the stalke is cropt,
Leaues here and there some blossomes on the ground,
So here and there the place was all bedropt
With her vermilion bloud about her round:
The Painters skill in painting of her wound
Seem'd most diuine and exquisit indeed,
For still there-from the drops yet seem'd to bleed.