As one unhappye, alwayes wept,

And to the walls shee made her mone;

40

That she shold still desire in vaine

The thing, she never must obtaine.

And thus in grieffe she spent the night,

Till twinkling starres the skye were fled, And Phoebus, with his glistering light,

Through misty cloudes appeared red;

Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan shipps were gone.

And then the queene with bloody knife

Did arme her hart as hard as stone, Yet, something loth to loose her life,

In woefull wise she made her mone;

And, rowling on her carefull bed,

With sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd:

O wretched Dido queene! quoth shee,

I see thy end approacheth neare ;

For hee is fled away from thee,

Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:

What is he gone, and passed by?

O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye.

Though reason says, thou shouldst forbeare,
And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke;
Yet fancy bids thee not to fear,

Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke.

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50

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Come death, quoth shee, resolve my smart!—
And with those words shee peerced her hart.

When death had pierced the tender hart

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Where itt consumed speedilye:

Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde;

Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.

False-harted wretch, quoth shee, thou art;

85

Unto thy lure a gentle hart,

And traiterouslye thou hast betraid

Which unto thee much welcome made;

My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,

Whose folly bred her deere annoy.

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Yett on her death-bed when shee lay,
Shee prayd for thy prosperitye,
Beseeching god, that every day

Might breed thy great felicitye:

Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend ;
Heavens send thee such untimely end.

When he these lines, full fraught with gall,
Perused had, and wayed them right,
His lofty courage then did fall;

And straight appeared in his sight

Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale:
Which made this valliant souldier quaile.

Eneas, quoth this ghastly ghost,
My whole delight when I did live,
Thee of all men I loved most;

My fancy and my will did give;

For entertainment I thee gave,
Unthankefully thou didst me grave.

Therfore prepare thy flitting soule

To wander with me in the aire:

Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle,

Because of me thou tookst no care:

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Delay not time, thy glasse is run,

Thy date is past, thy life is done.

O stay a while, thou lovely sprite,
Be not soe hasty to convay

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My soule into eternall night,

Where itt shall ne're behold bright day.

O doe not frowne; thy angry looke

Hath all my soule with horror shooke.'

But, woe is me! all is in vaine,

And bootless is my dismall crye ;
Time will not be recalled againe,

Nor thou surcease before I dye.
O lett me live, and make amends
To some of thy most dearest friends.

But seeing thou obdurate art,

And wilt no pittye on me show,
Because from thee I did depart,

And left unpaid what I did owe:
I must content myselfe to take
What lott to me thou wilt partake.

And thus, as one being in a trance,
A multitude of uglye feinds
About this woffull prince did dance;
He had no helpe of any friends:

His body then they tooke away,
And no man knew his dying day.

Ver. 120. MS. Hath made my breath my life forsooke.

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XXIII.

THE WITCHES' SONG.

-From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609.

The Editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. The last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former.

It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classical antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, in compliment to King James I. whose weakness on this head is well known: and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished.

By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.

1 WITCH.

I HAVE been all day looking after

A raven feeding upon a quarter:

And, soone as she turn'd her beak to the south,

I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth.