Ay me! the Starres supprisde like _Rhesus_ Steedes,
Are drawne by darknes forth _Astræus_ tents.
What shall I doe to saue thee my sweet boy?
When as the waues doe threat our Chrystall world,
And _Proteus_ raising hils of flouds on high,
Entends ere long to sport him in the skie.
False _Iupiter_, rewardst thou vertue so?
What? is not pietie exempt from woe?
Then dye _Æneas_ in thine innocence,
Since that religion hath no recompence.

_Iup._ 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,