Page:The works of Christopher Marlowe - ed. Dyce - 1859.djvu/336

274 Imprecor, arma amis; pugnent ipsique nepotes!

Live, false Æneas! truest Dido dies;

Sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras.

Anna. O, help, Iarbas! Dido in these flames

Hath burnt herself! ay me, unhappy me!

Iar. Cursèd Iarbas, die to expiate

The grief that tires upon thine inward soul!—

Dido, I come to thee.—Ay me, Æneas!

Anna. What can my tears or cries prevail me now?

Dido is dead!

Iarbas slain, Iarbas my dear love!

sweet Iarbas, Anna's sole delight!

What fatal Destiny envies me thus,

To see my sweet Iarbas slay himself?

But Anna now shall honour thee in death,

And mix her blood with thine; this shall I do,

That gods and men may pity this my death,

And rue our ends, senseless of life or breath:

Now, sweet Iarbas, stay! I come to thee.