Yprayid Jupiter on hie

To fave and kepin that navie
Of that dere Trojan Æneas,
Sichins that he your fonne ywas.
There fawe I Jovis Venus kifle,
And grauntid was of the' tempeft liffe.
There fawe I how the tempeft ftente,
And how with allè pine he went
And privilie toke a rivage
Into the countrie of Carthage,

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When that he knewe her, of his paine,

And, fhortly of this thyng to pace,
She made Æneas fo in grace

Of Dido, Quene of that countre,
That, fhortly for to tellin, fhe
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Became his love, and let hym do
All that weddyng ylongith to:

What should I fpekin it more quainte,
Or pain me my wordis to páinte?

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To fpeke of love it woll not be,

I can not of that faculte,

And eke to tellen of the manere

How that thei first acquaintid were

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It were a long proceffe to tell,
And ovir long for you to dwell.
There fawe I grave how Æneas
Tolde to Dido every caas
That hym was tidde upon the fe.

And eft gravin was how that she

Made of hym, fhortly at a worde,

Her life, her love, her luft, her lorde,
And did to hym all revèrence,

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And laied on hym all the dispence

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That any woman might ydo,

Wenyng that it had all be fo

As he her fwore, and hereby demed

That he was gode, for he foche femed:
Alas! what harme doth apparence

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When it is fulfe in exiftence!

For he to her a traitour was,

Wherefore the flowe her felf, alas!

Lo, how a woman doeth amis

To love him that unknowin is!

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For by Chrift lo thus it farith,
It is not all golde that glarith;
For al fo broke I well myne hedde
There maie be undir godelihedde
Covirid many a freude vice;

Therefore let no wight be so nice
To take a love onely for chere,
Or fpeche, or for frendly manere,
For this fhall every woman finde
That some man of his purè kinde
Woll fhewin outward the fairift

Till he have caught that what hym list,

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That He that fullie knoweth the berbe
Maie fafely laie it to his eye;

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Withoutin drede this is no lie.

But let us fpeke of Æneas How he betrayid her, alas! And left her full unkindèlie.

So when she fawe all uttirlie That he would her of trouthè faile, And wendin from her into' Itaile,

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And yet there fhall the thirde ybe,
That is ytakin for delite,
Lo! 'or els for finguler profite.
In foche wordis began complaine
This wofull Dido of her paine,
As me mette dremyng redily,
None other auctour aledge woll I.
Alas, (quod fhe) my fwetè herte!
Have pitie on my forowes fmerte,
And fle me not; go not awaie.
O wofull Dido! welawaie!
(Quod fhe) unto her felvin tho.

O Æneas! what woll ye do?

O that your love, neithir your bonde,

Which that ye fwore with your right honde,

Ne yet my my cruill deth, (quod fhe)
Maie holdin you still here with me!
O! have ye' of my deth no pite?
Iwis, myne own dere herte! that ye

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Knowin full well that nevir yet,
As farre as evir I had wit,

Agilte you in thought ne in dede.

O! have ye men foche godelihede In fpeche, and ner a dele of trouthe? Alas, alas! that er had routhe

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How fore so that ye men can grone;
Anon as we have you receved

Full certainlie we ben deceved,
For though your love last a cefon,
Waite upon the conclufion,
And loke eke how ye determine,
And for the more partè define:
O welawaie that I was borne!

For thorough you my name is lorne,
And mine actis are redde and fong
O'er all this lande in every tong.

O wickid Fame! for there n'is
Nothing fo fwifte, lo! as she is;
O fothe is, Every thyng is wift
Though it be coverde with the mift:
Eke though that I might durin ever
That I have done recovre' I never,

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