_Æn._ O my _Achates_, Theban _Niobe_,
Who for her sonnes death wept out life and breath,
And drie with griefe was turnd into a stone,
Had not such passions in her head as I.
Me thinkes that towne there should be _Troy_, yon _Idas_ hill,
There _Zanthus_ streame, because here's _Priamus_,
And when I know it is not, then I dye.

_Ach._ And in this humor is _Achates_ to,
I cannot choose but fall vpon my knees,
And kisse his hand: O where is _Hecuba_,
Here she was wont to sit, but sauing ayre
Is nothing here, and what is this but stone?

_Æn._ O yet this stone doth make _Æneas_ weepe,
And would my prayers (as _Pigmalions_ did)
Could giue it life, that vnder his conduct
We might saile backe to _Troy_ and be reuengde
On these hard harted Grecians; which reioyce
That nothing now is left of _Priamus_:
O _Priamus_ is left and this is he,
Come, come abourd, pursue the hatefull Greekes.

_Acha._ What means _Æneas_?

_Æn._ _Achates_ though mine eyes say this is stone,
Yet thinkes my minde that this is _Priamus_:
And when my grieued heart sighes and sayes no,
Then would it leape out to giue _Priam_ life:
O were I not at all so thou mightst be.