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.

_Iar._ But tell me Troians, Troians if you be,
Vnto what fruitfull quarters were ye bound,
Before that _Boreas_ buckled with your sailes?

_Cloan._ There is a place _Hesperia_ term'd by vs,
An ancient Empire, famoused for armes,
And fertile in faire _Ceres_ furrowed wealth,
Which now we call _Italia_ of his name,
That in such peace long time did rule the same:
Thither made we,
When suddenly gloomie _Orion_ rose,
And led our ships into the shallow sands,
Whereas the Southerne winde with brackish breath,
Disperst them all amongst the wrackfull Rockes:
From thence a fewe of vs escapt to land,
The rest we feare are foulded in the flouds.

_Iar._ Braue men at armes, abandon fruitles feares,
Since Carthage knowes to entertaine distresse.