_Acha._ Braue Prince of _Troy_, thou onely art our God,
That by thy vertues freest vs from annoy,
And makes our hopes suruiue to cunning ioyes:
Doe thou but smile, and clowdie heauen will cleare,
Whose night and day descendeth from thy browes:
Though we be now in extreame miserie,
And rest the map of weatherbeaten woe:
Yet shall the aged Sunne shed forth his aire,
To make vs liue vnto our former heate,
And euery beast the forrest doth send forth,
Bequeath her young ones to our scanted foode.

_Asca._ Father I faint, good father giue me meate.

_Æn._ Alas sweet boy, thou must be still a while,
Till we haue fire to dresse the meate we kild:
Gentle _Achates_, reach the Tinder boxe,
That we may make a fire to warme vs with,
And rost our new found victuals on this shoare.

_Venus._ See what strange arts necessitie findes out,
How neere my sweet _Æneas_ art thou driuen?

_Æn._ Hold, take this candle and goe light a fire,
You shall haue leaues and windfall bowes enow
Neere to these woods, to rost your meate withall:
_Ascanius_, goe and drie thy drenched lims,
Whiles I with my _Achates_ roaue abroad,
To know what coast the winde hath driuen vs on,