_Cup._ Now, Cupid, cause the Carthaginian queen To be enamour'd of thy brother's looks: Convey this golden arrow in thy sleeve, Lest she imagine thou art Venus' son; And when she strokes thee softly on the head, Then shall I touch her breast and conquer her.
_Iar._ How long, fair Dido, shall I pine for thee? 'Tis not enough that thou dost grant me love, But that I may enjoy what I desire: That love is childish which consists in words. 10
_Dido._ Iarbas, know, that thou, of all my wooers,-- And yet have I had many mightier kings,-- Hast had the greatest favours I could give. I fear me, Dido hath been counted light In being too familiar with Iarbas; Albeit the gods do know, no wanton thought Had ever residence in Dido's breast.
_Dido._ Fear not, Iarbas; Dido may be thine.
_Anna._ Look, sister, how Æneas' little son 20 Plays with your garments and embraceth you.
_Cup._ No, Dido will not take me in her arms; I shall not be her son, she loves me not.
_Dido._ Weep not, sweet boy; thou shalt be Dido's son: Sit in my lap, and let me hear thee sing. [CUPID _sings_. No more, my child; now talk another while, And tell me where learn'dst thou this pretty song.
_Cup._ My cousin Helen taught it me in Troy.
_Dido._ How lovely is Ascanius when he smiles!
_Cup._ Will Dido let me hang about her neck? 30
_Dido._ I, wag; and give thee leave to kiss her too.
_Cup._ What will you give me now? I'll have this fan.
_Dido._ Take it, Ascanius, for thy father's sake.
_Iar._ Come, Dido, leave Ascanius; let us walk.
_Dido._ Go thou away; Ascanius shall stay.
_Iar._ Ungentle queen, is this thy love to me?
_Dido._ O, stay, Iarbas, and I'll go with thee!
_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.
_Dido._ Iarbas, pardon me, and stay a while.
_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._ No; but I charge thee never look on me.