Shall a womans virtues move

Me, to perish for her love?
Or, her well-defervings knowne,
Make me quite forget mine owne?
Be fhee with that goodneffe bleft,
Which may merit name of Best;

If the be not fuch to me,

What care I how good the be?

Caufe her fortune feemes too high,
Shall I play the foole and dye?
Thofe that beare a noble minde,

Where they want of riches find,

Thinke what with them they would doe,

That without them dare to woe;

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25

30

And, unleffe that minde I fee,

What care I, though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or faire,

I will ne'er the more difpaire:

If the love me, this beleeve;
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If the flight me, when I wooe;
I can fcorne and let her
goe:

For, if thee be not for me,

What care I for whom the be?

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40

XXII. THE

XXII.

THE WANDERING PRINCE OF TROY.

This excellent old ballad, which perhaps ought to have been placed earlier in the volume, is given from the editor's folio MS. collated with two different printed copies, both in black letter in the Pepys collection.

The reader will smile to obferve with what natural and affecting fimplicity, our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclufion on the claffic ftory of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. nied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand, than that celebrated poet.

Nor can it be de

HEN Troy towne had, for ten yeares' past,'

WHE

Withflood the Greeks in manful wife,

Then did their foes increase so fast,

That to refift nought could fuffice:

Waste lye those walls, that were foe good,
And corn now grows where Troy towne stood.

Æneas, wandering prince of Troy,

When he for land long time had fought, At length arriving with great joy,

To mighty Carthage walls was brought; Where Dido queen, with fumptuous feast, Did entertaine this wandering guest.

VOL. III,

And

And, as in hall at meate they fate,

The queen, defirous newes to hear,

Says, of thy Troys unhappy fate'

- Declare to me thou Trojan dear:

The heavy hap and chance fo bad,

Which thou, poore wandering prince, haft had.

And then anon this comely knight,

With words demure, as he could well,

Of their unhappy ten yeares fight',

So true a tale began to tell,

With words fo fweet, and fighs fo deepe,
That oft he made them all to weepe.

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20

And then a thousand fighes he fet,

25

-And everye fighe brought teares amaine;

That where he fate the place was wet,

As though he had feene those warrs againe;

30

Soe that the queene, with ruth therefore
Sayd, worthye prince, enough, no more.

And now the darksome night drew on,

And twinkling ftarres the fkye befpred;

When he his dolefull tale had done,

And everye one was laid in bed:

Where they full sweetlye took their rest,

35

As one unhappy, alwaies wept,

And to the walls fhee made her mone;

40

A

That fhee fhould ftill defire in vaine
The thing, she never must obtaine.

And thus in griefe fhee spent the night,
Till twinkling ftarres the skye were fled,
And Phoebus, with his gliftering light,
Through misty cloudes appeared red;
Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan fhipps were gone.

And then the queene against her life

45

Did arme her heart as hard as ftone,

50

Yet, ere the bared the bloody knife,

In woefull wife fhee made her mone;

And, rolling on her carefull bed,

With fighes and fobs, these words fhee fed :

And stay my hand from bloody ftroke;
Thee, treacherous heart, I must not spare,
Which fettered me in Cupids yoke.
O 2

Come

Come death, quoth fhee, refolve my fmart :-
And with those words fhe pierc'd her heart.

When death had pierc'd the tender heart
Of Dido, Carthaginian queene;

65

Her fifters teares her tombe bestrew'd;

Her fubjects griefe their kindneffe fhew'd.

Then was Æneas in an isle

In Grecia, where he stay'd long space,

80

Whereatt her fifter in fhort while,

Writt to him to his vile disgrace;

In fpeeches bitter to his minde

Shee told him plaine, hee was unkinde.

Falfe-hearted wretch, quoth fhee, thou art;

And traiterouslye thou haft betraid

Unto thy lure a gentle heart,

Which unto thee much welcome made;

My filler deare, and Carthage' joy,

Whofe folly bred her dere annoy.

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90

Yet