Illio Monologue from The Tragedy of Dido Queene of Carthage

From The Tragedy of Dido Queene of Carthage by Christopher Marlowe

male · anguished · 58 sec

Follow ye Troians, follow this braue Lord, And plaine to him the summe of your distresse. (Iar: Why, what are you, or wherefore doe you sewe?) Wretches of Troy, enuied of the windes, That craue such fauour at your honors feete, As poore distressed miserie may pleade: Saue, saue, O saue our ships from cruell fire, That doe complaine the wounds of thousand waues, And spare our liues whom euery spite pursues. We come not we to wrong your Libian Gods, Or steale your houshold lares from their shrines: Our hands are not prepar'd to lawles spoyle, Nor armed to offend in any kind: Such force is farre from our vnweaponed thoughts, Whose fading weale of victorie forsooke, Forbids all hope to harbour neere our hearts.

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