A proper Ballad, intituled, The wandring Prince of Troy.
To the tune of, Queene Dido.
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WHen Troy Town for ten years warres,
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withstood the Greeks in manfull wise,
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Yet did their foes increase so fast,
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that to resist none could suffice:
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Wast lye those walls that were so good,
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And Corn now grows where Troy Town stood.
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AEneas wandring Prince of Troy,
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when he for Land long time had fought,
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At length arrived 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 entertaine this wandring Guest.
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And as in Hall at meat they sate,
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the Queen desiring newes to heare,
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Of thy unhappy ten yeares warre,
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declare to me thou Trojan deare,
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The heavy hap and chance so bad,
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That thou poore wandring Prince hast had.
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And then anon this comely Knight,
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with words demure as he could well,
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Of his unhappy ten yeares warres,
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so true a tale began to tell,
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With words so sweet and sighs so deep,
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As oft he made them all to weep.
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And then a thousand sighs he fetcht,
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and every sight brought teares amaine,
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That where he sate the place was wet,
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as if he had seen those warres againe;
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So that the Queen with ruth therefore,
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Said, worthy Prince enough no more.
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The darksome night apace grew on,
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[and tw]inkling starres in skies were spread,
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As he his dolefull tale had told,
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and everyone lay in his bed;
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Where they full sweetly took their rest,
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Save onely Dido's boyling 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 alwayes wept,
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and to the walls she made her moane,
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That she should still desire in vaine,
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The thing which she could not obtaine.
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And thus in griefe she spent the night,
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till twinkling starres from skies were fled,
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And Phoebus with his glistering beames,
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through misty clouds appeared red;
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Then tydings came to her anon,
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That all the Trojan Ships were gone.
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And then the Queene with bloody knife,
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did arme her heart as hard as stone,
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Yet somewhat loth to lose her life,
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in wofull wise she made her moane;
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And rowling on her carefull bed,
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With sighs & sobs these words she said.
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O wretched Dido Queen (quoth she)
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I see thy end approaching neere,
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For hee is gone away from thee,
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whom thou didst love and hold so deare:
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Is he then gone, and passed by,
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O heart prepare thyselfe to dye.
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Though reason would thou shouldst forbeare,
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to stay thy hand from bloody stroake,
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Yet fancy sayes thou shouldst not feare,
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who fetteredst thee in Cupids yoake:
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Com Death (quoth she) resolve my smart,
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And with those words she pierst her heart.
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WHen Death had pierst the tender heart
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of Dido, Carthagenian Queene,
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And bloody knife did end her smart,
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which she sustain'd in wofull teene:
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AEneas being shipt and gone,
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Whose flattery caused all her mone.
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Her Funerall most costly made,
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and all things finisht mournfully,
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Her body fine in mould was laid,
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where it consumed speedily:
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Her Sisters teares her Tombe bestrew'd,
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Her Subjects griefes their kindnesse shew'd.
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Then was AEneas in an Ile,
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in Grecia, where he liv'd long space,
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Whereas her Sister in short while
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writ to him, to his foule disgrace;
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In phrase of Letters to her minde,
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She told him plaine he was unkinde.
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False-hearted wretch (quoth she) thou art,
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and trayterously thou hast betray'd,
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Unto thy lure a gentle heart,
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which unto thee such welcome made:
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My Sister deare, and Carthage joy,
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Whose folly bred her dire annoy.
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Yet on her death-bed when she lay,
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she pray'd for thy prosperity,
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Beeching God that every day
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might breed thee great felicity:
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Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend,
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Heaven send thee such untimely end.
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When he these Lines full fraught with gall;
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perused had and weigh'd them right,
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His lofty courage then did faile,
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and straigh appear'd in his sight
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Queene Dido's Ghost both grim and pale,
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Which made this valiant Souldier quaile.
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AEneas (quoth this g[risly Gost,]
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my whole delight while I did live,
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Thee of all men I loved most,
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my fancie and my will did give;
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For entertainement I thee gave,
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Unthankefully thou dig'st my grave.
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Wherefore prepare thy fleeting Soule
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to wander with me in the Ayre,
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Where deadly griefe shall make it howle,
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because of me thou took'st no care:
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Delay no time thy Glasse is runne,
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Thy date is past and death is come.
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Oh stay a while thou lovely Sprite,
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be not so hasty to convey
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My Soul unto eternall night,
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where it shall nere behold bright day;
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Oh doe not frowne, thy angry looke
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Hath made my breath my life forsooke.
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But woe is me, it is in vaine
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and bootlesse is my dismall crie,
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Time will not be recal'd againe,
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nor thou surcease before I dye;
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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 will not pitty on me show,
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Because from thee I did depart,
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and left unpayd what I did owe;
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I must consent myselfe to take
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What lot thou will wish me partake.
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And like one being in a trance,
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a multitude of ugly Fiends
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About this woefull Prince did dance
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no help he had of any friends;
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His body then they tooke away,
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And no man knew his dy[i]ng day.
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