Content thee Cytherea in thy care, Since thy Æneas wandring fate is firme, Whose wearie lims shall shortly make repose, In those faire walles I promist him of yore: But first in bloud must his good fortune bud, Before he be the Lord of Turnus towne, Or force her smile that hetherto hath frownd: Three winters shall he with the Rutiles warre, And in the end subdue them with his sword, And full three Sommers likewise shall he waste, In mannaging those fierce barbarian mindes: Which once performd, poore Troy so long supprest, From forth her ashes shall aduance her head, And flourish once againe that erst was dead: But bright Ascanius beauties better worke, Who with the Sunne deuides one radiant shape, Shall build his throne amidst those starrie towers, That earth-borne Atlas groning vnderprops: No bounds but heauen shall bound his Emperie, Whose azured gates enchased with his name, Shall make the morning halt her gray vprise, To feede her eyes with his engrauen fame. Thus in stoute Hectors race three hundred yeares, The Romane Scepter royall shall remaine, Till that a Princesse priest conceau'd by Mars, Shall yeeld to dignitie a dubble birth, Who will eternish Troy in their attempts.

Iup Monologue from The Tragedy of Dido Queene of Carthage

Rehearse Iup's monologue