I, this it is which wounds me to the death, To see a Phrigian far fet to the sea, Preferd before a man of maiestie: O loue, O hate, O cruell womens hearts, That imitate the Moone in euery chaunge, And like the Planets euer loue to raunge: What shall I doe thus wronged with disdaine? Reuenge me on Æneas, or on her: On her? fond man, that were to warre gainst heauen, And with one shaft prouoke ten thousand darts: This Troians end will be thy enuies aime, Whose bloud will reconcile thee to content, And make loue drunken with thy sweete desire: But Dido that now holdeth him so deare, Will dye with very tidings of his death: But time will discontinue her content, And mould her minde vnto newe fancies shapes: O God of heauen, turne the hand of fate Vnto that happie day of my delight, And then, what then? Iarbus shall but loue: So doth he now, though not with equall gaine, That resteth in the riuall of thy paine, Who nere will cease to soare till he be slaine. (Exit.) (The storme. Enter Æneas and Dido in the Caue at seuerall times.)

Iar Monologue from The Tragedy of Dido Queene of Carthage

Rehearse Iar's monologue