Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DIDO TO AENEAS, by JOACHIM DU BELLAY



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DIDO TO AENEAS, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Lyke as the swann snow white
Last Line: That refte her selfe of breath.
Alternate Author Name(s): Du Bellay, Joachim


Lyke as the swann snow white
without delight,
Amongst the waterye springes:
Hyr fatall dying songe,
the bancks alonge
On sweet Maenander singes.

So I all hopelesse styll,
to wrest thy will:
In vayne my moane doe make;
For on those graceles teares
my lyfe that weares,
The gods no pittye take.

But havinge loste the fame
of honest name,
Which chastytie men call:
To lose my lynes lykewyse
and carefull cryes
I counte no losse at all.

Thy sayles thow wilt betake
and now forsake,
Poore Dido ledd astraye:
The selfe same wyndes in skies
shall blowe lykewise,
Thy faith and Shippes awaye.

Thow wilt to Oceans wyde
thy tacks lett slyde,
And plighted promys foile,
Thow wilte with endles paine
go seeke to gaine,
Unknowen Italyan soyle.

May Carthage not the wynn?
which doth begynn:
To reare his head so hyghe,
Thow forrayne Realmes wilt seeke
yet canst not lyke
Thy conquest gaynde so nye.

Thyn owne thow doest eschewe,
and wilt pursue
Hope of uncertaine gaynes:
Els weare thy lykinge lyes,
and doest despyse
Goodes gotten without paines.

Admitt on Lande thow lyghte;
yett by what righte
Canst thow enjoy the same:
How will the people sweare
true fayth to beare
Unto a straungers name.

Another Didos love
thow wilt yett prove;
And newe delyghts assayle,
Another trothe in store,
which as before
Againe must falcelye faile.

When thinckest thow Trojan knight
with like delight,
To builde Carthagos peare?
Or where hopest thow to see
offred so free?
The glorye thow findest heare.

But graunte thy fortune suche,
to gaine so much
As aunswere may thy fyll:
Yet never shalt thow fynde
a mate so kynde;
To beare the like good will.

As doth a waxen torche
consume and scorche;
In flames so waste my yeares,
And still unto my sighte
both day and nyght
AEneas shape apeares.

All blushinge redd for shame
as toucht with blame
Of conscyence foullye wraykt,
And foole why doe I not
unknitt the knott
Of such his lewde contract.

Alas my fixed love
cannot remowe,
Though from his fayth he swarve
My lykinge still doth growe
the more I knowe
How yll he doth deserve.

O Venus graunte of grace
to ayde hir case
That in thy Sonn hath right;
And thow proude Archer learne
thy brother stearne,
To lyve a loyall knyght.

Or els yff he hath sworne
loves lawes to scorne,
Which I cannott eschewe;
Yett let hym longer staye
and day by daye
My deepe desyer renewe.

I ame abusde in the
that vaunst to bee
Comme of the heavenlye race;
Within whose cancred Brest
there doth not rest
One sparke off so high grace.

The stonye Rocks I knowe
that roots and growe
Uppon some barren earthe;
Or ravenynge Tygers wylde,
with mylke unmylde,
Dyd breede the from thy birthe.

Or of the ruthles waves
that stormynge raves
With whirle wyndes to and froe;
Whereon thy gaddinge mynde
is nowe enclynde
So desperatelye to gooe.

Why fleest thow so from me
doest thow not see
That winter pleades my case,
And puffinge Northern gales
wyth threatninge Bales
The frothy Seas doe chase.

Make me behouldinge yet,
though not a whitt,
To the, for this request:
But to the windes and Skies
that so denise
To rue one my unrest

I am not worth so muche
yf harme the touche
Though thy desert be smale;
As that to shunn my sighte
by secrete flyght
Into mishappe thow fall.

But in thy waywarde brest
there shuer doth rest
Somme hidden deadlye gale;
Iff from me to departe
content thow arte
To hazarde lyfe and all.

The lofty tossinge racke
will shortelye slacke
And be at certaine staye,
And Trytons charrott brave
wyll calme the wave
That now so rough doth playe.

O that thy willfull mynde
even with the winde,
Woulde yet in tyme convarte:
Which well I hope it maye
els will I saye
Then steele thow styffer arte.

Thow that so much canst boaste
to have bine toste,
On seas so full off stryfe:
Will yett goe prowe againe
the toylinge paine
Off that same hellyshe lyfe.

What though Naeptunus smyle
the to beguyle
When thow departest the Baye;
Yett manye a stormye freatt
and perrils greate
May happen by the waye.

Whose vowes have bynn unjust
should never trust
The vengaunce of the Seas;
Who doth his fayth forswere
should lyve in feare
The Gods he doth displease.

And havinge love beguylde
sweete Venus childe
The mothers wrath beware;
For Cythare the fayre
is his owne ayre
That rule on seas doth bare.

See how I doe requite
goodwill for spite
So to advise my foe;
Why should I dreade to thinke
that thow shouldst synck
Through whom I swymme in woe

But happye mayst thow lyve,
and rather geve
Myne eyes cause to lament
Thy partinge, then thy death;
though my last breath
Throughe thy despite be spent.

Put case (but gods the shylde)
somme storme unmylde
On suddayne the surprise;
What thoughts of secreete synne,
and grudge within
Thy conscience would aryse.

When thow to mynde dost call
the leasings all
Of the perjurede wyghte:
And how poore Dido Queene
hath felt the teene
Off cancrede Trojan spite,

A thowsand rackinge cares
shall unawares
Within thy thoughts be ryfe;
The fettered locks unbounde
and bloudye wounde
Of thy abused wyfe.

Then hopelesse of redresse
thow shalt confesse
And waile thy lewde pretence:
And saye this tempeste greate
doth only threate
Revenge of myne offence.

Wherefore let tyme aswage
Neptunus rage
Geve thy desyre somme rest:
Ere thow departe awaye
a lyttle staye
May fall out for the best

Have no respecte to me
but gratious be
To younge Julus lyfe;
Enoughe is thy defame
to staine thy name
With murder off thy wife.

What hath thy lovely Sonn
to the mysdonn
Or els thy Gods of Troye;
Whom havynge savde from fyre
thow shouldst desire
In depe seas to destroye.

But thow playdst no such parte
oh faythles harte
For all thy vauntinge vayne;
Nor on thy shoulders lyer
thyn aged Syer
Thow never didst sustaine.

Tys fals o tounge accurste
nor I the furste
That thy smothe tales have charmde,
For those thy flatteringe bayts
with lyke deceyghts
Full many a harte hath harmde

Wouldest thow but truelye tell
what chaunce befell
Aschanius mother deare:
Hyr death would fall out right
through thy despight
That wearte hir faythles pheare

But to fayre wordes god wote
I sylly Sote
My yeldinge eare dyd bende,
Whereby this life of myne
in stead of thine
Is brought unto an ende.

Thy gods as ytt should seame
the guiltye deame
And therefore plauge the soe,
That for this seaven years space
from place to place
Haste romed to and froe.

When I the francklye lett
thy foote to sett
Uppon my fenced Shoare;
And to a wandringe slave
my kingdome gave
His name scarce tolde before.

With theise good turnes off myne
to the and thyne
Would I had bene suffysde;
So that the foule desyre
of Cupids fyre
Had nott my harte surprysde.

But dismale was that Daye:
when I astraye
Into a savage Cave
Alone with the first wente;
but with entente
Our selves from showres to save.

Me thoughte the Nymphes begann
in that place than
To shoute our wedlocks sporte;
But fends they weare of hell
that dyd foretell
My Joyes should be but shorte.

With vengeaunce let be rackte
my honor wrackte
Which I Sicheus sware:
Or let somme hatefull ende
my Ghost downe sende
As full of shame as care.

A sacred shryne I have
wheare portred brave
Sicheus shape ys seene:
Which holly place is dyght
with fleeces whight
And garlonds all of grene.

And theare a whysperinge noyce
of his owne voice
Me seemde foure tymes to heare;
With sounde moste sweete to please
his wordes weare theyse
Elisa cumme my deare.

I cumm and will assaye
the speadye waye
To the that arte myne owne;
But with how dreadfull paine
because my stayne
I feare to the ys knowne.

Yett pardone me that parte
myne owne deare harte;
For the Celestiall name
Of hym that wann my truste:
unto his luste
Ought to excuse my blame.

His mothers heavenlye Race,
his Princelye grace,
His Syer on shoulders borne;
Dyd make me thinke at least
that such a guest
Woulde not have bene foresworne.

Yf Dido faultye bee
yett heare yow see
Some reasone of hir blame;
But if thow wilt be true
I neede not rue
Nor blushe a whytt for shame.

But as somme fortune yll
hath tracte me still
From my first daye of byrthe;
Even so the frowarde fates
my soule that hates
Wyll guyde me to the Earthe.

My spouse our gods in sighte
through murderous mighte
With his bloude staynde the grounde:
My brothers hande acurste
with bloodye thurste
Did gyve the gapinge wounde.

Leavynge that Soyle att once
whereas the bones
Of my mate was ingravde;
By presente speedy flyghte
from Brothers spighte
My syllye selfe I savde.

Pursude so was I toste
from coaste to coaste;
And heare this Lande and crowne,
Which I gave the for noughte,
I dearlye boughte,
And buylte this statelye Towne.

With walles I dyd it strengthe
off breadth and leangthe;
With flancks and ditches deepe:
Whose greatnes doth apale
our neighbours all
And them in homage keepe.

Than might I see huge Bandes
envade my landes,
Me haples wenche to chase:
On me they wagde fearce warre
newe come from farre
Scarce setled in this place.

Howe many Suyters brave
scornde I to have
Refusinge wedlocks state:
All which will now dysdaine
that I retayne
An unknowne wandringe mate.

Cruell thow shouldst enragde
have me engagde
Unto Hyarbas will:
Since I so many a daye
have bynne thy praye
Feade on my lyfe thy fill.

My Brother that so fayne
his blade would bayne
Within my Brest alas;
Might by the helpe off the
be vengde on mee
As on my spouse he was

Lay downe thy gods prophande
whom thow hast namde
With perjurde vowes in vayne;
And bee thow not beguilde,
for hands defylde
Such sacrede things disdaine.

Yff thow that savdst them soe
becumme their foe
And now blaspheame their name:
They scorne that so by the
they should be free
From wracke off Trojane flame.

Disloyall whether fleest?
when as thow seest
By the I greate am growne;
Since then within my vaynes
thy blood remaynes
Spill not that is thyne owne.

The hurtles Babe shall feele
the murderinge steele
By his deare mothers deathe:
So thow the quellar arte
off one poore harte
That never tasted breathe.

And Didos dismall daye
shall rydd awaye
Ascagnius lytle Brother:
His mortall paine and myne
mixt in one shrine
Shall passe on with the other.

Yff herehence thow arte prest
by Joves beheste
Woulde his will so hadd bene
That thow and thy proude traine
to worcke my paine
Our Shoares had never seene

Tys Jove that guides the soe
both to and froe
Still hoveringe in the winde
Tys he that made the straye
so many a Daye
Err thow repose couldst finde

Yff statelye Troye yett stoode
with walles so good
And Pryams Sonne so stoute
To fynd agayne thy soyle
lesse weare the toyle
Then this thow goste aboute

Aryve thow to thy mynde
thow shalt not finde
Thy pleasaunt Simois
But furious Tyber floode
whose raginge moode
To straungers fearefull is

Besides the tyme and scope
when thow dost hope
To see thy voyage done;
Will powder the with hoare
and age before
Thow hast thy Conquest woone.

Reteyne the Realme thow haste
and holde thow faste
This wealth and people brave:
Pursue no farder dryfts
theyse are the gyfts
That I the freely gave.

Take all Pigmalyons golde
in heapes untoulde
Transporte thy Troye to Tyre:
The Scepter of this lande
with luckye hande
Dyrect at thy desier.

Yf thow desire to trye
thy courage hye
Accustomde to the fielde;
Yff yonge Julus mynde
be so enclynde
To use his conqueringe sheilde.

Ye neede not wander farr
to search for warr
We daylye have alarmes;
Heare may yow finde and seeke
what best yow leeke
Off peace or els of Armes.

Remorce of the I crave
which let me have
For heavenly Cupids sake!
Even for thy fathers ghoste
which lovde the moste
For Gods love pitty take.

Which yff to doe thow daine
the and thy traine
Lett all good fortune guyde:
And let that Trojan foyle
be the last toyle
That ever thow shalt byde.

And let thy lovely Sonn
his race longe runn
With happe and honor blest:
Thy Fathers bones to have
a royall grave
Where they in peace may rest.

Be thow my deare more kinde
and call to mynde
The tale thow dydst me tell:
What fault findst thow with me
Except ytt bee
For lovynge the so well?

Poore wench I am no Greeke
that came to seeke
The spoile of Priams crowne;
My spouse, nor yet my Syre,
helpt not to fyre,
Thy warlyke worthy towne.

Yff me thy wife to name
thow hould a shame
Thyne Hostes doe me call;
So I with the remayne
I nought disdaine,
What still I have withall.

By proofe we fynde it soe
somme wynds that blowe
Doe never certaine byde.
And lesse your skill be good
off wynde and flood
Yow stryve against the tyde.

When fitter wyndes then theise
shall serve the Seas
In good howre hoyse thy sayle:
Meane while thy fleete may staye
in quiet Baye
The more for thy avayle.

Then yf thow so be bent
I will consent
And farder thy pretence;
To see thy Navye drest
Ile doe my best
And helpe thy partinge hence.

As yet thy menn of warr
with travyll farr
Are weake with watchinge toyle;
Thy Shipps not rygd for the
as they may bee
Iff thow but stay a while.

For those thy pleasures paste
which to thy laste
Should holde me in thy grace:
And for thy Hollye vowes
to be my spouse
Abyde a longer space.

That whilst highe winds that blowe
doe fall more lowe,
And cleare the lowringe skies:
Meane while this gryfe of myne
by tract off tyme
May bee asswagde lykwise.

Iff not I meane with speade
to doe the deade
That shall thy spite abate:
O that thow couldst arighte
conceave the sighte
Off me in this harde state

Myne eyes lyke clowdye showres
that down right powres
Thy Trojan sworde hath bainde;
But streyght that blade of thine
in steade off bryne
With bloode shall be dystainde.

Good gods how well with me
thy gifts agree
To wreak and worke my will;
Thow gavst with yll entent
this Instrument
My selfe therewith to kill.

This stroke which me doth wounde
shall not be founde
Allonely in my Harte;
For off thy fatall love
my Soule dyd prove
A former deadly darte.

Deare Sister Ann that arte
of this my smarte
A wittnes to thy wooe;
Uppon this wrack of myne
those Eyes off thyne
Shall faithfull teares bestowe.

And when my Tombe is frambde
lett not be namde
Sicheus Dido deare;
But only on my Hearse
this heavy vearse
Deepe graven shall appeare.

The fault AEneas made,
and gave the Blade,
Bothe causes off my death:
But desperatt Dido
gave the blowe,
That refte her selfe of breath.





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