An Excellent OLD BALLAD, entitled,
The Wandering PRINCE of TROY.
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WHEN Troy town had for ten years wars,
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Withstood the Greeks in manful wise,
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Then did their foes encrease so fast,
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That to resist none could suffice;
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Waste lie those walls that are so good,
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And corn now grows where Troy town stood.
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Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy,
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When he for land long time had sought,
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At length arriving with great joy,
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To mighty Carthage walls was brought,
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Where Dido, Queen with sumptuous feast,
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Did entertain her wandering guest.
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And as in hall at meat they sat,
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The Queen desires now to hear,
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Of thy unhappy ten years wars,
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Declare to me thou Trojan dear;
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Thine heavy hand and change so bad,
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Which thou poor wandering prince hast had.
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And then anon this worthy Prince,
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With words demure, as he could well,
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Of his unhappy ten years wars,
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So sure a tale began to tell:
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The Carthage Queen with sighs so deep,
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On hearing him did nought but weep.
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And then a thousand sighs he fetchd,
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And every sigh brought tears amain,
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That where he sat the place was wet,
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As if hed seen these wars again:
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So that the Queen with truth therefore,
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Said, Worthy Prince, enough, no more.
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The darksome night drew on a -pace,
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And twinkling stars from skies were fled,
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And he his doleful tale had told,
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And every one lay in his bed;
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Where he full sweetly took their rest,
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Save only Didos boiling breast.
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This silly woman never slept,
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But in her chamber all alone,
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As one unhappy always kept;
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Unto the walls she made her moan.
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That she should so desire in vain
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The thing that she could not obtain.
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And thus in grief she spent the night,
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Till twinkling stars from skies were fled,
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And Phebus with his glimmering beams,
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Thro misty clouds appeared red,
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Then tidings came to her anon,
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That all the Trojan ships were gone.
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And then the Queen with bloody knife,
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Aimd at her heart as hard as stone;
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Yet somewhat loath to lose her life,
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Unto herself did make great moan;
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And rolling on her careful bed,
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With sighs and sobs these words she said.
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O wretched Dido Queen, quoth she,
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I see thy end approaching near;
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For he is gone away from thee.
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Whom thou dost love and hold so dear!
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Is he then gone and passed by?
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O heart, prepare thyself to die.
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Tho reason would thou should forbear,
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And stop thy hand from bloody stroke;
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Yet fancy says, thou wouldst not spare
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Who fetters thee in Cupids yoke.
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Come death, said she, and end the smart,
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And with these words she piercd her heart.
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When death had piercd the tender heart,
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Of Dido, Carthaginian Queen,
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And bloody knife did end the smart,
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Which she sustaind in woeful teen.
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Eneas being shipd and gone,
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Whose flattry caused all her moan.
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Her funeral most costly made,
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And all things finishd mournfully,
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Her body in the ground was laid,
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Where it consumed speedily.
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Her sisters tears her tomb bedewd,
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Her subjects grief their kindness shewd.
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Then was Eneas in an isle
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In Greece, where he lived a long space;
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Whereas his sister in a short time
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Wrote to him to his souls disgrace,
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In phrase of letter to her mind,
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She told him plainly he was unkind.
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False-hearted wretch, quoth she, thou art,
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And treacherously thou hast betrayd
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Unto thyself a gentle heart,
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Which unto thee such welcome made,
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My sister dear, and Carthage joy,
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Whose folly wrought her dire annoy.
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Yet on her death bed as she lay,
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She prayd for thy prosperity,
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Beseeching God that every day,
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Might breed thee great felicity;
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Thus by thy means I lost a friend;
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Heaven send thee an untimely end.
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When he these lines, full fraught with gall
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Perusd and weighd them aright,
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His lofty courage then did fall,
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And strait appeared in his sight
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Queen Didos ghost, both grim and pale,
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Which made this lofty soldier quail.
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Eneas, quoth this gris[s]ly ghost,
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My whole delight whilst I did live,
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Three of all men I loved most,
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My fancy and my will did give.
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For the entertainment I thee gave,
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Unthankfully thou digst my grave.
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Therefore prepare thy fleeting soul
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To wander with me in the air,
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Where deadly grief shall make it howl,
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Because of me thou tookst no care:
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Delay no time thy glass is run,
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For life is gone and aeath is come.
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O stay awhile thou lovely spright,
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Be not so ready to convey
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My soul into eternal night,
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Where it shail neer behold the day.
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O do not frown! thy angry look
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Hath made my breath my life forsake.
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But woe is me! it is in vain,
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And bootless is my cry;
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Time will not be recalld again,
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Nor you surcease before I die.
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O let me live to make amends,
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Unto some of my dearest friends.
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But seeing thou obdurate art
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And wilt no pity to me show,
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Because I did from thee depart,
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And left unpaid what I did owe:
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I must content myself to take,
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What lot thou wilt with me partake.
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And like one being a trance,
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A multitude of ugly fiends
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About this woeful prince did dance,
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No help had he of any friends.
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His body then they took away,
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And no man knew his dying-day.
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