Enter Piso, Scevinus, Lucan, Flavius.
Piso. Noble Gentlemen, what thankes, what recompenceShall hee give you that give to him the world?One life to them that must so many venture,And that the worst of all, is too meane paye;Yet can give no more. Take that, bestow itUpon your service.
Lucan. OPiso, that vouchsafestTo grace our headlesse partie with thy name,Whom having our conductor[28] we need notHave fear'd to goe against[29] the well try'd vallorOf Julius or stayednesse ofAugustus,Much lesse the shame and Womanhood ofNero;When we had once given out that our pretencesWere all for thee, our end to make thee Prince,They thronging came to give their names, Men, Women,Gentlemen, People, Soldiers, Senators,[30]The Campe and Cittie grew asham'd thatNeroAndPisoshould be offered them together.
Scevin. We seeke not now (as in the happy dayesOth' common wealth they did) for libertie;O you deere ashes,CassiusandBrutus,That was with you entomb'd, their let it rest.We are contented with the galling yokeIf they will only leave us necks to beare it:We seeke no longer freedome, we seeke life;At least, not to be murdred, let us dieOn Enemies swords. Shall we, whom neitherTheMedianBow norMacedonianSpeareNor the fierceGaulnor paintedBritoncouldSubdue, lay down our neckes to tyrants axe?Why doe we talke of Vertue that obayWeaknesse and Vice?
Piso. Have patience, goodScevinus.
Lucan. Weaknesse and servile Government we hithertoObeyed have, which, that we may no longer,We have our lives and fortunes now set up,And have our cause withPisoescredit strengthned.
Flav. Which makes it doubtfull whether love to him OrNeroeshatred hath drawne more unto us.
Piso. I see the good thoughts you have of me, Lords.Lets now proceede to th'purpose of our meeting:I pray you take your places.Lets have some paper brought.
Scevin. Whose within?
Enter Milichus to them.
Mill. My Lord.
Scevin. Some Inke and Paper.
[Exit Mili.
Enter againe with Incke and Paper.
Flav. Whose that,Scevinus?
Scevin. It is my freed man,Milichus.
Lucan. Is he trustie?
Scevin. I, for as great matters as we are about.
Piso. And those are great ones.
Lucan. I aske not that we meane to need his trust; Gaine hath great soveraigntie ore servile mindes.
Scevin. O but my benefits have bound him to me. I from a bondman have his state not onely Advanct to freedome but to wealth and credit.
Piso.Mili. waite ith' next chamber till we call. [abscondit se. The thing determinde on, our meeting now Is of the meanes and place, due circumstance As to the doing of things: 'tis required So done it names the action.[31]
Mili. I wonder (aside)What makes this new resort to haunt our house.When wontedLucius Pisoto come hither,OrLucanwhen so oft as now of late?
Piso. And since the field and open shew of armesDisliked you, and that for the generall goodYou meane to end all styrres in end of him;That, as the ground, must first be thought upon.
Mill. Besides, this comming cannot be for forme, (aside) Our (Mere?) visitation; they goe aside And have long conferences by themselves.
Lucan.Piso, his coming to your house at Baiae[32]To bathe and banquet will fit meanes afford,Amidst his cups, to end his hated life:Let him die drunke that nere liv'd soberly.
Piso. O be it farre that I should staine my TableAnd Gods of Hospitalitie with blood.Let not our cause (now Innocent) be soyldWith such a plot, norPisoesname made hatefull.What place can better fit our actionThen his owne house, that boundlesse envied heapeBuilt with the spoyles and blood of Cittizens,That hath taken up the Citie, left no roomeForRometo stand on?Romanesget you goneAnd dwell atVeiae, if thatVeiaetooThis (His?) house ore runne not.[33]
Lucan. But twill be hard to doe it in his house And harder to escape, being done.
Piso. Not so:Rufus, the Captaine of the Guard, 's with us,And divers other oth'PraetorianbandAlready made (named?); many, though unacquaintedWith our intents, have had disgrace and wrongsWhich grieve them still; most will be glad of change,And even they that lov'd him best, when onceThey see him gone, will smile oth' comming times,Let goe things past and looke to their owne safetie:Besides, th'astonishment and feare will beSo great, so sodaine that 'twill hinder themFrom doing anything.
Mili. No private businesse can concerne them all: (aside) Their countenances are troubled and looke sad; Doubt and importance in their face is read.
Lucan. Yet still, I think it were Safer t'attempt him private and alone.
Flav. But 'twill not carry that opinion with it; 'Twill seeme more foule and come from private malice.Brutusand they, to right the common cause, Did chuse a publike place.
Scevin.[34] Our deed is honest, why should it seeke corners?Tis for the people done, let them behold it;Let me have them a witnesse of my truthAnd love to th'Common-wealth. The danger's greater,So is the glory. Why should our pale counselsTend whether feare rather then vertue calls them?I doe not like these cold considerings.First let our thoughts looke up to what is honest,Next to what's safe. If danger may deterre usNothing that's great or good shall ere be done:And, when we first gave hands upon this deed,To th'common safetie we our owne gave up.Let no man venture on a princes death,How bad soever, with beliefe to escape;Dispaire must be our hope, fame o[u]r reward.To make the generall liking to concurreWith others (ours?) were even to strike him in his shameOr (as he thinks) his glory, on the stage,And so too truly make't a Tragedy;When all the people cannot chuse but clapSo sweet a close, and 'twill notCaesarbeThat shall be slaine, aRomanPrince;Twill beAlcmaeonor blind Oedipus.
Mili. And if it be of publique matters 'tis not (aside)Like to be talke or idle fault finding,On which the coward onely spends his wisedome:These are all men of action and of spirit,And dare performe what they determine on.
Lucan. What thinke you ofPoppaea, TigellinusAnd th'other odious Instruments of Court? Were it not best at once to rid them all?
Scevin. InCaesarsruineAnthonywas spared;Lets not our cause with needlesse blood distaine.One onely mov'd, the change will not appeare;When too much licence given to the sword,Though against ill, will make even good men feare.Besides, things setled, you at pleasure mayBy Law and publique Iudgement have them rid.
Mili. And if it be but talke oth' State 'tis Treason. (aside)Like it they cannot, that they cannot doe:If seeke to mend it, and remoove the Prince,That's highest Treason: change his Councellours,That's alteration of the Government,The common cloke that Treasons muffled in:If laying force aside, to seeke by suiteAnd faire petition t'have the State reform'd,That's tutering of the Prince and takes awayTh' one his person, this his Soveraigntie.Barely in private talke to shew dislikeOf what is done is dangerous; therefore the actionMislike you cause the doer likes you not.Men are not fit to live ith' state they hate.
Piso. Though we would all have that imployment sought,Yet, since your worthy forwardnesseScevinus[35]Prevents us and so Nobly beggs for danger,Be this (thine?) the chosen hand to doe the deed;The fortune of the Empire speed your sword.
Scevin. Vertue and Heaven speed it. You home-borneGods of our countrey,RomulusandVesta,ThatThuscan Tiberand Romes towers defends,Forbid not yet at length a happie endTo former evils; let this hand revengeThe wronged world; enough we now have suffered.
[Exeunt.
Manet Milichus solus.
Mili. Tush, all this long Consulting's more then words, It ends not there; th'have some attempt, some plot Against the state: well, I'le observe it farther And, if I find it, make my profit of it. [Exit.
Finis Actus Secundus. [Sic.]
Actus Tertius.
Enter Poppea solus. [Sic.]
Poppea. I looktNimphidiuswould have come ere this.Makes he no greater hast to our embraces,Or doth the easiness abate his edge?Or seeme we not as faire still as we did?Or is he so withNeroesplaying wonneThat he beforePoppeadoth preferre it?Or doth he think to have occasion still,Still to have time to waite on our stolne meetings?
Enter Nimphidius to her.
But see, his presence now doth end those doubts.What is't,Nimphidius, hath so long detain'd you?
Nimphid. Faith, Lady, causes strong enough, High walls, bard dores, and guards of armed men.
Poppea. Were you Imprisoned, then, as you were going To the Theater?
Nimphid. Not in my going, Lady,But in the Theater I was imprisoned.For after he was once upon the StageThe Gates[36] were more severely lookt intoThen at a town besieg'd: no man, no causeWas Currant, no, nor passant. At other sightsThe striefe is only to get in, but hereThe stirre was all in getting out againe.Had we not bin kept to it so I thinke'Twould nere have been so tedious, though I know'Twas hard to judge whether his doing of itWere more absurd then 'twas for him[37] to doe it.But when we once were forct to be spectators,Compel'd to that which should have bin a pleasure,We could no longer beare the wearisomnesse:No paine so irksome as a forct delight.Some fell down dead or seem'd at least to doe so,Under that colour to be carried forth.Then death first pleasur'd men, the shape all feareWas put on gladly; some clomb ore the wallsAnd so, by falling, caught in earnest thatWhich th'other did dissemble. There were women[38]That (being not able to intreat the guardTo let them passe the gates) were brought to bedAmidst the throngs of men, and madeLucinaBlush to see that unwonted companie.
Poppea. If 'twere so straightly kept how got you forth?
Nimphid. Faith, Lady, I came pretending hastIn Face and Countenance, told them I was sentFor things bith' Prince forgot about the sceane,Which both my credit made them to beleeveAndNeronewly whispered me before.Thus did I passe the gates; the danger, Ladie,I have not yet escapt.
Poppea. What danger meane you?
Nimphid. The danger of his anger when he knowesHow I thus shranke away; for there stood knaves,That put downe in their Tables all that stir'dAnd markt in each there cheerefulnesse or sadnesse.
Poppea. I warrant He excuse you; but I prayLett's be a little better for your sight.How did our Princely husband actOrestes?Did he not wish againe his mother living?Her death would adde great life unto his part.But come, I pray; the storie of your sight.
Nimph. O doe not drive me to those hatefull paines.Lady, I was too much in seeing vext;Let it not be redoubled with the telling.I now am well and heare, my eares set free;O be mercifull, doe not bring me backeUnto my prison, at least free your selfe.It will not passe away, but stay the time;Wracke out the houres in length. O give me leave:As one that wearied with the toyle at seaAnd now on wished shore hath firm'd his foote,He lookes about and glads his thoughts and eyesWith sight oth' greene cloath'd ground and leavy trees,Of flowers that begge more then the looking on,And likes these other waters narrow shores;So let me lay my wearines in these armes,Nothing but kisses to this mouth discourse,My thoughts be compast in those circl'd Eyes,Eyes on no obiect looke but on these Cheekes;Be blest my hands with touch of those round brestsWhiter and softer than the downe of Swans.Let me of thee and of thy beauties gloryAn[39] endless tell, but never wearying story.
[Exeunt.
Enter Nero, Epaphroditus, Neophilus.
Nero. Come Sirs, I faith, how did you like my acting? What? wast not as you lookt for?
Epaphr. Yes, my Lord, and much beyond.
Nero. Did I not doe it to the life?
Epaphr. The very doing never was so lively As was this counterfeyting.
Nero. And when I came Toth' point ofAgripp[40]—Clytemnestrasdeath, Did it not move the feeling auditory?
Epaphr. They had beene stones whom that could not have mov'd.
Nero. Did not my voice hold out well to the end, And serv'd me afterwards afresh to sing with?
Neoph. We knowAppollocannot match your voice.
Epaphr. By Jove! I thinke you are the God himselfe Come from above to shew your hidden arts And fill us men with wonder of your skill.
Nero. Nay, faith, speake truely, doe not flatter me; I know you need not; flattery's but where Desert is meane.
Epaphr. I sweare by thee, OCaesar, Then whom no power of heaven I honour more, No mortall Voice can passe or equall thine.
Nero. They tell ofOrpheus, when he tooke his LuteAnd moov'd the noble Ivory with his touch,Hebrusstood still,Pangeabow'd his head,Ossathen first shooke off his snowe and cameTo listen to the moovings of his song;The gentlePoplertooke the baye along,And call'd thePynedowne from his Mountaine seate;TheVirgine Bay, although the Arts she hatesOth'DelphickGod, was with his voice orecome;He his twice-lostEuridicebewailesAndProserpinesvaine gifts, and makes the shoresAnd hollow caves of forrests now untreedBeare his griefe company, and all things teachethHis lost loves name; Then water, ayre, and groundEuridice, Euridiceresound.These are bould tales, of which the Greeks have store;But if he could from Hell once more returneAnd would compare his hand and voice with mine,I, though himselfe were iudge, he then should seeHow much theLatinestaines theThracianlyar.I oft have walkt byTibersflowing bankesAnd heard the Swan sing her own epitaph:When she heard me she held her peace and died.Let others raise from earthly things their praise;Heaven hath stood still to hear my happy ayresAnd ceast th'eternall Musicke of theSphearesTo marke my voyce and mend their tunes by mine.
Neoph. O divine voice!
Epaphr. Happy are they that heare it!
Enter Tigellinus to them.
Nero. But here comesTigellinus; come, thy bill. Are there so many? I see I have enemies.
Epaphr. Have you putCaiusin? I saw him frowne.
Neoph. And in the midst oth' Emperors action.Galluslaught out, and as I thinke in scorne.
Nero.Vespasian[41] too asleepe? was he so drowsie? Well, he shall sleepe the Iron sleepe of death. And didThrasealooke so sourely on us?
Tigell. He never smilde, my Lord, nor would vouchsafe With one applause to grace your action.
Nero. Our action needed not be grac'd by him:Hee's our old enemie and still maligns us.'Twill have an end, nay it shall have an end.Why, I have bin too pittifull, too remisse;My easinesse is laught at and contemn'd.But I will change it; not as heretoforeBy singling out them one by one to death:Each common man can such revenges have;A Princes anger must lay desolateCitties, Kingdomes consume, Roote up mankind.O could I live to see the generall end,Behold the world enwrapt in funerall flame,When as theSunneshall lend his beames to burneWhat he before brought forth, and water serveNot to extinguish but to nurse the fire;Then, like theSalamander, bathing meIn the last Ashes of all mortall thingsLet me give up this breath.Priamwas happie,Happie indeed; he saw hisTroyburntAndIllionlye on heapes, whilst thy pure streames(DivineScamander) did runPhrygianblood,And heard the pleasant cries ofTroianmothers.Could I seeRomeso!
Tigell. Your Maiestie may easily, Without this trouble to your sacred mind.
Nero. What may I easily doe? Kill thee or him:How may I rid you all? Where is the ManThat will all others end and last himselfe?O that I had thy Thunder in my hand,Thou idle Rover, I'de[42] not shoote at treesAnd spend in woods my unregarded vengeance,Ide shevire them downe upon their guilty roofesAnd fill the streetes with bloody burials.But 'tis not Heaven can give me what I seeke;To you, you hated kingdomes of the night,You severe powers that not like those aboveWill with faire words or childrens cryes be wonne,That have a stile beyond that Heaven is proud off,Deriving not from Art a makers NameBut in destruction power and terror shew,To you I flye for succour; you, whose dwellingsFor torments are belyde, must give me ease.Furies, lend me your fires; no, they are here,They must be other fires, materiall brandsThat must the burning of my heat allay.I bring to you no rude unpractiz'd hands,Already doe they reeke with mothers' blood.Tush, that's but innocent[43] to what now I meane:Alasse, what evell could those yeeres commit!The world in this shall see my setled wit.
[Exeunt.
Enter Seneca, Petronius.
Seneca. Petronius, you were at theTheater?
Petron.Seneca, I was, and saw your Kingly PupyllIn Mynstrills habit stand before the IudgesBowing those hands which the worlds Scepter hold,And with great awe and reverence beseechingIndifferent hearing and an equall doome.Then Caesar doubted first to be oreborne;And so he ioyn'd himselfe to th'other singersAnd straightly all other Lawes oth' Stage observ'd,As not (though weary) to sit downe, not spit,Not wipe his sweat off but with what he wore.[44]Meane time how would he eye his adversaries,How he would seeke t'have all they did disgract;Traduce them privily, openly raile at them;And them he could not conquer so he wouldCorrupt with money to doe worse then he.This was his singing part: his acting now.
Seneca. Nay, even end here, for I have heard enough;I[45] have a Fidler heard him, let me notSee him a Player, nor the fearefull voyceOfRomesgreat Monarch now command in Iest—Our Prince beAgamemnon[46] in a Play!
Petron. Why,[47]Seneca, 'Tis better in [a] PlayBeAgamemnonthan himselfe indeed.How oft, with danger of the field besetOr with home mutineys, would he unbeeHimselfe; or, over cruel alters weeping,Wish that with putting off a vizard heeMight his true inward sorrow lay aside.The showes of things are better then themselves.How doth it stirre this ayery part of usTo heare our Poets tell imagin'd fightsAnd the strange blowes that fained courage gives!When I[48]Achillesheare upon the StageSpeake Honour and the greatnesse of his soule,Me thinkes I too could on aPhrygianSpeareRunne boldly and make tales for after times;But when we come to act it in the deedDeath mars this bravery, and the ugly fearesOf th'other world sit on the proudest browe,And boasting Valour looseth his red cheeke.
A Romane to them.
Rom. Fire, fire! helpe, we burne!
2Rom. Fire, water, fire, helpe, fire!
Seneca. Fire? Where?
Petron. Where? What fire?
Rom. O round about, here, there, on every side The girdling flame doth with unkind embraces Compasse the Citie.
Petron. How came this fire? by whom?
Seneca. Wast chance or purpose?
Petron. Why is't not quencht?
Rom. Alas, there are a many there with weapons, And whether it be for pray or by command They hinder, nay, they throwe on fire-brands.[49]
Enter Antonius to them.
Anton. The fire increaseth and will not be staid,But like a stream[50] that tumbling from a hillOrewhelmes the fields, orewhelmes the hopefull toyleOth' husbandman and headlong beares the woods;The unweeting Shepheard on a Rocke afarreAmazed heares the feareful noyse; so hereDanger and Terror strive which shall exceed.Some cry and yet are well; some are kild silent;Some kindly runne to helpe their neighbours house,The whilest their own's afire;[51] some save their goodsAnd leave their dearer pledges in the flame;One takes his little sonnes with trembling hands;Tother his house-Gods saves, which could not him;All bann the doer, and with wishes killTheir absent Murderer.
Petron. What, are theGaulsreturnd? DothBrennusbrandish fire-brands againe?
Seneca. What can Heaven now unto our suffrings adde?
Enter another Romane to them.
Rom. O all goes downe,Romefalleth from the Roofe; The winds aloft, the conquering flame turnes all Into it selfe. Nor doe the Gods escape;Plei[a]desburnes;Iupiter, Saturneburnes; The Altar now is made a sacrifice, AndVestamournes to see her Virgin fires Mingle with prophane ashes.
Seneca. Heaven, hast thou set this end to Roman greatnesse?Were the worlds spoyles for this to Rome devidedTo make but our fires bigger?You Gods, whose anger made us great, grant yetSome change in misery. We begge not nowTo have our Consull tread onAsianKingsOr spurne the quiveredSusaat their feet;This we have had before: we beg to live,At least not thus to die. LetCannae[52] come,LetAllias[53] waters turne again to blood:To these will any miseries be light.
Petron. Why with falseAugurieshave we bin deceiv'd?Why was our Empire told us should endureWith Sunne and Moone in time, in brightnesse pass them,And that our end should be oth' world and it?What, can Celestiall Godheads double too?
Seneca.O Rome, the envy lateBut now the pitie of the world! theGetes[54]?The men ofCholcosat thy sufferings grive;The shaggy dweller in theScithianRockes,TheMosch[55] condemned to perpetual snowes,That never wept at kindreds burialsSuffers with thee and feeles his heart to soften.O should theParthyanheare these miseriesHe would (his low and native hate apart[56])Sit downe with us and lend an Enemies teareTo grace the funerall fires of ending Rome.
[Exeunt.
Soft Musique. Enter Nero above alone with a Timbrell.
I, now myTroylookes beautious in her flames;TheTyrrheneSeas are bright withRomanfiresWhilst the amazed Mariner afarre,Gazing on th'unknowne light, wonders what starreHeaven hath begot to ease the aged Moone.WhenPirrhus, stryding ore the cynders, stoodOn ground whereTroylate was, and with his EyeMeasur'd the height of what he had throwne downe,—A Citie great in people and in power,Walls built with hands of God—he now forgive[s]The ten yeares length and thinkes his wounds well heald,Bath'd in the blood ofPriamsfifty sonnes.Yet am not I appeas'd; I must see moreThen Towers and Collomns tumble to the ground;'Twas not the high built walls and guiltlesse stonesThatNerodid provoke: themselves must be the woodTo feed this fire or quench it with their blood.
Enter a Woman with a burnt Child.
Wom. O my deare Infant, O my Child, my Child,Unhappy comfort of my nine moneths paines;And did I beare thee only for the fire,Was I to that end made a mother?
Nero. I, now begins the sceane that I would have.
Enter a Man bearing another dead.
Man. O Father, speake yet; no, the mercilesse blowe Hath all bereft speech, motion, sense and life.
Wom. O beauteous innocence, whitenes ill blackt, How to be made a coale didst thou deserve?
Man. O reverend wrinckles, well becoming palenesse, Why hath death now lifes colours given thee And mockes thee with the beauties of fresh youth?
Wom. Why wert thou given me to be tane away So soone, or could not Heaven tell how to punish But first by blessing mee?
Man. Why where thy years Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely?
Nero. Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cryes and pitie, with your blood; Mens Eyes[57]—
Wom. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses, And armes that wont to writhe about my necke?
Man. Where are thy counsels? where thy good example, And that kind roughnes of a Father's anger?
Wom. Whom have I now to leane my old age on?
Man. Who shall I now have to set right my youth? Gods, if yee be not fled from Heaven, helpe us.
Nero. I like this Musique well; they like not mine.Now in the teare[s] of all men let me sing,And make it doubtfull to the Gods aboveWhether the Earth be pleas'd or doe complaine.
(Within, cantat.)
Man. But may the man that all this blood hath shedNever bequeath to th'earth an old gray head;Let him untimely be cut off before.And leave a course like this, all wounds and gore;Be there no friends at hand, no standers byIn love or pittie mov'd to close that Eye:O let him die, the wish and hate of all,And not a teare to grace his Funerall.
[Exeunt.
Wom. Heaven, you will heare (that which the world doth scorn)The prayers of misery and soules forlorne.Your anger waxeth by delaying stronger,O now for mercy be despis'd no longer;Let him that makes so many Mothers childlesseMake his unhappy in her fruitfulnesse.Let him no issue leave to beare his nameOr sonne to right a Fathers wronged fame;Our flames to quit be righteous in your yre,And when he dies let him want funerall fire.
[Exeunt.
Nero. Let Heaven do what it will, this I have done.Already doe you feel my furies waight:Rome is become a grave of her late greatnes;Her clowdes of smoke have tane away the day,Her flames the night.Now, unbeleaving Eyes, what crave you more?
Enter Neophilus to him.
Neoph. O save your selfe, my Lord: your Pallace burnes.
Nero. My Pallace? how? what traiterous hand?
Enter Tigellinus to them.
Tigell. O flie, my Lord, and save your selfe betimes.The winde doth beate the fire upon your house,The eating flame devoures your double gates;Your pillars fall, your golden roofes doe melt;Your antique Tables and Greeke ImageryThe fire besets; and the smoake, you see,Doth choake my speech: O flie and save your life.
Nero. Heaven thou dost strive, I see, for victory.
[Exeunt.
Enter Nimphidius solus.
See how Fate workes unto their purpos'd endAnd without all selfe-Industry will raiseWhom they determine to make great and happy.Nerothrowes down himselfe, I stirre him not;He runnes unto destruction, studies wayesTo compasse danger and attaine the hateOf all. Bee his owne wishis on his head,NorRomewith fire more then revenges burne.Let me stand still or lye or sleepe, I rise.Poppeasome new favour will seeke outMy wakings to salute; I cannot stirreBut messages of new preferment meet me.Now she hath made me Captaine of the GuardSo well I beare me in these night AlarmesThat she imagin'd I was made for Armes.I now command the Souldier,[58] he the Citie:If any chance doe turne the Prince aside(As many hatreds, mischiefes threaten him)Ours is his wife; his seat and throwne is ours:He's next in right that hath the strongest powers.[Exit.
Enter Scevinus, Milichus.
Scevin. OTroyand O yee soules of our forefathersWhich in your countreys fires were offered up,How neere your Nephews[59] to your fortunes come.Yet they wereGrecianhands began your flame;But that our Temples and our houses smoake,Our Marble buildings turne to be our Tombes,Burnt bones and spurnt at Courses fill the streets,NotPirrhusnor thou,Hanniball, art Author:SadRomeis ruin'd by aRomanehand.But if toNeroesend this onely wayHeavens Justice hath chose out, and peoples loveCould not but by these feebling ills be mov'd,We doe not then at all complaine; our harmesOn this condition please us; let us dieAnd cloy theParthianwith revenge and pitie.
Mili. My Master hath seald up his Testament;Those bond-men which he liketh best set free;Given money, and more liberally then he us'd.And now, as if a farewell to the worldWere meant, a sumpteous banquet hath he made;Yet not with countenance that feasters use,But cheeres his friends the whilest himselfe lookes sad.
Scevin. I have from Fortunes Temple[60] tane this sword;May it be fortunate and now at least,Since it could not prevent, punish the Evill.ToRomeit had bin better done before,But though lesse helping now they'le praise it more.Great Soveraigne of all mortall actions.Whom only wretched men and Poets blame,Speed thou the weapon which I have from thee.'Twas not amid thy Temple MonumentsIn vaine repos'd; somewhat I know't hath done:O with new honours let it be laid up.Strike bouldly, arme; so many powerful prayersOf dead and living hover over thee.
Mili. And though sometimes with talk impertinentAnd idle fances he would fame a mirth,Yet is it easie seene somewhat is heereThe which he dares not let his face make shew of.
Scevin. Long want of use[61] hath made it dull and blunt.— See,Milichus, this weapon better edg'd.
Mili. Sharpning of swords? When must wee then have blowes?Or meanes my Master,Cato-like, to exemptHimselfe from power of Fates and, cloy'd with life,Give the Gods backe their unregarded gift?But he hath neitherCatoesmind nor cause;A man given ore to pleasures and soft ease.Which makes me still to doubt how in affairesOf Princes he dares meddle or desires.
Scevin. We shall have blowes on both sides.—Milichus,Provide me store of cloathes to bind up wounds.—What an't be heart for heart; Death is the worst.The Gods sure keepe it, hide from us that live.How sweet death is because we should goe onAnd be their bailes.—There are about the houseSome stones that will stanch blood; see them set up.—This world I see hath no felicitie:Ile trie the other.
Mili.Neroeslife is sought;[62]The sword's prepar'd against anothers breast,The helpe for his. It can be no private foe,For then 'twere best to make it knowne and callHis troupes of bond and freed men to his aide.Besides his Counsellors,SenecaAndLucan, are no Managers of quarrels.
Scevin. Me thinkes I see him struggling on the ground, Heare his unmanly outcries and lost prayers Made to the Gods which turne their heads away.Nero, this day must end the worlds desires And head-long send thee to unquenched fires. [Exit.
Mili. Why doe I further idly stand debating?My proofes are but too many and too frequent,And Princes Eares still to suspitions open.Who ever, being but accus'd, was quit?For States are wise and cut of ylls that may be.Meane men must die that t'other may sleepe sound.Chiefely that[63] rule whose weaknes, apt to feares,And bad deserts of all men makes them knowThere's none but is in heart what hee's accused.[Exit.
Finis Actus Tertii.
_Actus Quartus.
Enter Nero, Poppaea, Nimphidius, Tigellinus, Neophilus,and Epaphroditus_.
Nero. This kisse, sweete love Ile force from thee, and this;And of such spoiles and victories be prowderThan if I had the fiercePannonianOr gray-eyedGermanten times overcome.LetIuliusgoe and fight at end oth' worldAnd conquer from the wilde inhabitantsTheir cold and poverty, whilstNerohereMakes other warres, warres where the conquerd gaines,Where to orecome is to be prisoner.O willingly I give my freedome upAnd put on my owne chaines,And am in love with my captivitie.SuchVenusis when on the sandy shoreOfXanthusor onIdaspleasant greeneShe leades the dance; her the Nymphes all a-rowe[64]And smyling graces do accompany.IfBacchuscould his stragling MynionGrace with a glorious wreath of shining Starres,Why should not Heaven myPoppaeaCrowne?The Northerne teeme shall move into a round,New constellations rise to honour thee;The earth shall wooe thy favours and the SeaLay his rich shells and treasure at thy feete.For theeHidaspisshall throw up his gold,Panchaiabreath the rich delightful smells;TheSeresand the feather'd man ofIndeShall their fine arts and curious labours bring;And where the Sunn's not knownePoppaeasnameShall midst their feasts and barbarous pompe be sung.
Poppea. I, now I am worthy to be Queene oth' world,Fairer thenVenusor theBacchuslove;But you'le anon unto your cutt-boy[65]Sporus,Your new made woman; to whom now, I heare,You are wedded too.
Nero. I wedded?
Poppaea. I, you wedded.Did you not heare the words oth'Auspyces?Was not the boy in bride-like garments drest?Marriage bookes seald as 'twere for yssue toBe had betweene you? solemne feasts prepar'd,While all the Court withGod-give-you-Ioysounds?It had bin goodDomitiusyour FatherHad nere had other wife.
Nero. Your froward, foole; y'are still so bitter. Whose that?
Enter Milichus to them.
Nimph. One that it seemes, my Lord, doth come in hast.
Nero. Yet in his face he sends his tale before him. Bad newes thou tellest?
Mili. 'Tis bad I tell, but good that I can tell it Therefore your Maiestie will pardon me If I offend your eares to save your life.
Nero. Why? is my life indangerd? How ends the circumstance? thou wrackst my thoughts.
Mili. My Lord, your life is conspir'd against.
Nero. By whom?
Mili. I must be of the world excus'd in this, If the great dutie to your Maiestie, Makes me all other lesser to neglect.
Nero. Th'art a tedious fellow. Speake: by whom?
Mili. By my Master.
Nero. Who's thy Master?
Mili.Scevinus.
Poppea.Scevinus? why should he conspire?— Unlesse he thinke that likenesse in conditions May make him, too, worthy oth' Empire thought.
Nero. Who are else in it?
[Mili]. I thinkeNatalis, Subrius, Flavus,[66]Lucan, Seneca, and Lucius Piso, AsperandQuintilianus.
Nero. Ha done,Thou'ilt reckon all Rome anone; and so thou maist,Th'are villaines all, Ile not trust one of them.O that theRomaneshad all but one necke!
Poppea.Pisoesslie creeping into mens affectionsAnd popular arts have given long cause of doubt;And th'others late observed discontents,Risen from misinterpreted disgraces,May make us credit this relation.
Nero. Where are they? come they not upon us yet? See the Guard doubled, see the Gates shut up. Why, they'le surprise us in our Court anon.
Mili. Not so, my Lord; they are atPisoeshouse And thinke themselves yet safe and undiscry'd.
Nero. Lets thither then, And take them in this false security.
Tigell. 'Twere better first to publish them traytors.
Nimph. That were to make them soAnd force them all upon their Enemies.Now without stirre or hazard theyle be taneAnd boldly triall dare and law demaund;Besides, this accusation may be forg'dBy mallice or mistaking.
Poppea. What likes you doe,Nimphidius, out of hand:Two waies distract when either would prevaile.If they, suspecting but this fellowes absence,Should try the Citie and attempt their friendsHow dangerous mightPisoesfavour be?
Nimph. I to himselfe[67] would make the matter cleareWhich now upon one servants credit stands.The Cities favour keepes within the bondsOf profit, they'le love none to hurt themselves;Honour and friendship they heare others name,Themselves doe neither feele nor know the same.To put them yet (though needlesse) in some feareWeele keepe their streets with armed companies;Then, if they stirre, they see their wives and housesPrepar'd a pray to th'greedy Souldier.
Poppea. Let us be quicke then, you toPisoeshouse, While I andTigellinusfurther sift This fellowes knowledge.
[Ex. omnes praeter Nero.
Nero. Looke to the gates and walles oth' Citie; lookeThe river be well kept; have watches setIn every passage and in every way.—But who shall watch these watches? What if they,Begin and play the Traitors first? O where shall ISeeke faith or them that I may wisely trust?The Citie favours the conspirators;The Senate in disgrace and feare hath liv'd;The Camp—why? most are souldiers that he named;Besides, he knowes not all, and like a fooleI interrupted him, else had he namedThose that stood by me. O securitie,Which we so much seeke after, yet art stillTo Courts a stranger and dost rather chooseThe smoaky reedes and sedgy cottagesThen the proud roofes and wanton cost of kings.O sweet dispised ioyes of poverty,A happines unknowne unto the Gods!Would I had rather in pooreGabii[68] binOrUlubraea ragged Magistrate,Sat as a Iudge of measures and of corneThen the adored Monarke of the world.Mother, thou didst deservedly in this,That from a private and sure state didst raiseMy fortunes to this slippery hill of greatnesseWhere I can neither stand nor fall with life.[Exit.
Enter Piso, Lucan, Scevinus, Flavius.
Flav. But, since we are discover'd, what remaines But put our lives upon our hands? these swords Shall try us Traitors or true Citizens.
Scevin. And what should make this hazard doubt successe? Stout men are oft with sudden onsets danted: What shall this Stage-player be?
Lucan. It is not nowAugustusgravitie norTiberiuscraft, ButTigellinusandChrisogonus, Eunuckes and women that we goe against.
Scevin. This for thy owne sake, this for ours we begg,That thou wilt suffer him to be orecome;Why shouldst thou keepe so many vowed swordsFrom such a hated throate?
Flav. Or shall we feare To trust unto the Gods so good a cause?
Lucan. By this we may ourselves Heavens favour promiseBecause all noblenesse and worth on earthWe see's on our side. Here theFabyssonne,Here theCorviniare and take that partThere noble Fathers would, if now they liv'd.There's not a soule that claimes Nobilitie,Either by his or his forefathers merit,But is with us; with us the gallant youthWhom passed dangers or hote bloud makes bould;Staid men suspect their wisdome or their faithTo whom our counsels we have not reveald;And while (our party seeking to disgrace)They traitors call us, each man treason praisethAnd hateth faith whenPisois a traitor.
Scevin. And,[69] at adventure, what by stoutnesse canBefall us worse than will by cowardise?If both the people and the souldier failde usYet shall we die at least worthy our selves,Worthy our ancestors. OPisothinke,Thinke on that day when in theParthianfieldsThou cryedst to th'flying Legions to turneAnd looke Death in the face; he was not grimBut faire and lovely when he came in armes.O why there di'd we not onSyrianswords?Were we reserv'd to prisons and to chaines?Behold the Galley-asses in every street;And even now they come to clap on yrons.MustPisoeshead be shewed upon a pole?Those members torne, rather thenRoman-likeAndPiso-like with weapons in our handsFighting in throng of enemies to die?And that it shall not be a civill warreNeroprevents, whose cruelty hath leftFew Citizens; we are not Romans nowBut Moores, and Jewes, and utmost Spaniards,AndAsiaesrefuse[70] that doe fill the Citie.
Piso. Part of us are already tak'n; the restAmaz'd and seeking holes. Our hidden endsYou see laid open; Court and Citie arm'dAnd for feare ioyning to the part they feare.Why should we move desperate and hopelesse armesAnd vainely spill that noble bloud that shouldChristallRubes[71] and theMedianfields,NotTibercolour? And the more your show be,Your loves and readinesse to loose your lives,The lother I am to adventure them.Yet am I proud you would for me have dy'd;But live, and keepe your selves to worthier ends.No Mother but my owne shall weepe my deathNor will I make, by overthrowing us,Heaven guiltie of more faults yet; from the hopesYour owne good wishes rather then the thingDoe make you see, this comfort I receiveOf death unforst. O friends I would not dieWhen I can live no longer; 'tis my gloryThat free and willing I give up this breath,Leaving such courages as yours untri'd.But to be long in talk of dying wouldShew a relenting and a doubtfull mind:By this you shall my quiet thoughts intend;I blame not Earth nor Heaven for my end.[72](He dies.)
Lucan. O that this noble courage had bin shewne Rather on enemies breasts then on thy owne.
Scevin. But sacred and inviolate be thy will,And let it lead and teach us.This sword I could more willingly have thrustThroughNeroesbreast; that fortune deni'd me,It now shall throughScevinus.
[Exeunt.
Enter Tigellinus solus.
What multitudes of villaines are here gottenIn a conspiracy, whichHydralikeStill in the cutting off increaseth more.The more we take the more are still appeach[t],And every man brings in new company.I wonder what we shall doe with them all!The prisons cannot hold more then they have,The Iayles are full, the holes with Gallants stincke;Strawe and gold lace together live, I thinke.'Twere best even shut the gates oth' Citie upAnd make it all one Iayle; for this I am sure,There's not an honest man within the walles.And, though the guilty doth exceed the free,[73]Yet through a base and fatall cowardiseThey all assist in taking one anotherAnd by their owne hands are to prison led.There's no condition nor degree of menBut here are met; men of the sword and gowne,Plebeians, Senators, and women too;Ladies that might have slaine him with their eyeWould use their hands; PhilosophersAnd Polititians. Polititians?Their plot was laid too short. Poets would nowNot only write but be the argumentsOf Tragedies. The Emperour's much pleased:But[74] some have namedSeneca; and IWill havePetronius. One promise of pardonOr feare of torture will accusers find.[Exit.
Enter Nimphidius, Lucan, Scevinus, with a guard.
Nimph. ThoughPisoessuddennesse and guilty hand Prevented hath the death he should have had, Yet you abide it must.
Lucan. O may the earth lye lightly on his Course, Sprinckle his ashes with your flowers and teares; The love and dainties of mankind is gone.
Scevin. What onely now we can, we'le follow thee That way thou lead'st and waite on thee in death; Which we had done had not these hindred us.
Nimph. Nay, other ends your grievous crimes awaite, Ends which the law and your deserts exact.
Scevin. What have we deserved?
Nimph. That punishment that traitors unto Princes, And enemies to the State they live, in merit.
Scevin. If by the State this government you meaneI iustly am an enemy unto it.That's but toNero, you andTigellinus.That glorious world that even beguiles the wise,Being lookt into, includes but three or foureCorrupted men, which were they all remov'd'Twould for the common State much better be.
Nimph. Why, what can you ith' government mislike,Unlesse it grieve you that the world's in peaceOr that our arm[i]es conquer without blood?Hath not his power with forraine visitationsAnd strangers honour more acknowlldg'd binThen any was afore him? Hath not heeDispos'd of frontier kingdomes with successe?Given away Crownes, whom he set up availing?The rivall seat of theArsacidae,That thought their brightnesse equall unto ours,Is't crown'd by him, by him doth raigne?If we have any warre it's beyondRheneAndEuphrates, and such whose different chancesHave rather serv'd for pleasure and discourseThen troubled us. At home the Citie hathIncreast in wealth, with building bin adorn'd,The arts have flourisht and the Muses sung;And that his Iustice and well tempered raigneHave the best Iudges pleas'd, the powers divine,Their blessings and so long prosperitieOf th'Empire under him enough declare.
Scevin. You freed the State from warres abroad, but 'twasTo spoile at home more safely and divertTheParthianenmitie on us; and yetThe glory rather and the spoyles of warreHave wanting bin, the losse and charge we have.Your peace is full of cruelty and wrong;Lawes taught to speake to present purposes;Wealth and faire houses dangerous faults become;Much blood ith' Citie and no common deaths,But Gentlemen and Consulary houses.OnCaesarsowne house looke: hath that bin free?Hath he not shed the blood he calls divine?Hath not that neerenes which should love begetAlways on him bin cause of hate and feare?Vertue and power suspected and kept downe?They, whose great ancestors this Empire made,Distrusted in the government thereof?A happy state whereDeciusis a traytor,Narcissustrue! nor onley wast unsafeT'offend the Prince; his freed men worse were feard,Whose wrongs with such insulting pride were heardThat even the faultie it made innocentIf we complain'd that was it selfe a crime,I, though it were toCaesarsbenefit:Our writings pry'd into, falce guiltinesThinking each taxing pointed out it selfe;Our private whisperings listned after; nay,Our thoughts were forced out of us and punisht;And had it bin in you to have taken awayOur understanding as you did our speech,You would have made us thought this honest too.
Nimph. Can malice narrow eyes See anything yet more it can traduce?
Scevin. His long continued taxes I forbeare,In which he chiefely showed him to be Prince;His robbing Alters,[75] sale of Holy things,The Antique Goblets of adored rustAnd sacred gifts of kings and people sold.Nor was the spoile more odious than the useThey were imployd on; spent on shame and lust,Which still have bin so endless in their changeAnd made us know a divers servitude.But that he hath bin suffered so longAnd prospered, as you say; for that to thee,O Heaven, I turne my selfe and cry, "No GodHath care of us." Yet have we our revenge,As much as Earth may be reveng'd on Heaven:Their divine honourNeroshall usurpe,And prayers and feasts and adoration haveAs well asIupiter.
Nimph. Away, blaspheming tongue, Be ever silent for thy bitternesse.
[Exeunt.
Enter Nero, Poppaea, Tigellinus, Flavius, Neophilus, Epaphroditus, and a yong man.
Nero. What could cause thee, Forgetfull of my benefits and thy oath, To seeke my life?
Flav.Nero, I hated thee:Nor was there any of thy souldiersMore faithful, while thou faith deserv'dst, then I.Together did I leave to be a subject,And thou a Prince. Caesar was now becomeA Player on the Stage, a Waggoner,A burner of our houses and of us,A Paracide of Wife and Mother.[76]
Tigell. Villaine, dost know where and of whom thou speakst?
Nero. Have you but one death for him? Let it bee A feeling one;Tigellinus, bee't[77] Thy charge, and let me see thee witty in't.
Tigell. Come, sirrah; Weele see how stoutly you'le stretch out your necke.
Flav. Wold thou durst strike as stoutly. [Exit Tigell. and Flav.
Nero. And what's hee there?
Epaphr. One that in whispering oreheard[78] What pitie 'twas, my Lord, thatPisoedied.
Nero. And why was't pitie, sirrah,Pisoedied?
Yong. My Lord, 'twas pitie he deserv'd to die.
Poppaea. How much this youth myOthodoth resemble; (aside.)Othomy first, my best love who is now (Under pretext of governing) exyl'd ToLucitania, honourably banish't.
Nero. Well, if you be so passionate, Ile make you spend your pitie on your Prince And good men, not on traytors.
Yong. The Gods forbid my Prince should pitie need.Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirreOth' fraile and weake condition of our kind,Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterdayThe world butCaesarcould shew nothing higher.Besides, some vertues and some worth he had,That might excuse my pitie to an endSo cruell and unripe.
Poppaea. I know not how this stranger moves my mind. (Aside.)His face me thinkes is not like other mens,Nor do they speake thus. Oh, his words invadeMy weakned senses and overcome my heart.
Nero. Your pitie shewes your favour and your will,Which side you are inclinde too, had you[79] power:You can but pitie, else shouldCaesarfeare.Your ill affection then shall punisht bee.Take him to execution; he shall dieThat the death pities of mine enemie.
Yong. This benefit at leastSad death shall give, to free me from the powerOf such a government; and if I dieFor pitying humane chance andPisoesendThere will be some too that will pitie mine.
Poppaea. O what a dauntlesse looke, what sparkling eyes, (aside.)Threating in suffering! sure some noble blood Is hid in ragges; feares argues a base spirit; In him what courage and contempt of death! And shall I suffer one I love to die? He shall not die.—Hands of this man! Away!Nero, thou shalt not kill this guiltlesse man.
Nero. He guiltlesse? Strumpet!
(Spurns her, and Poppaea falls.)
She is in love with the smooth face of the boy.
Neoph. Alas, my Lord, you have slaine her.
Epaphr. Helpe, she dies.
Nero.Poppaea, Poppaea, speake, I am not angry; I did not meane to hurt thee; speake, sweet love.
Neoph. She's dead, my Lord.
Nero. Fetch her againe, she shall not die:Ile ope the Iron gates of hellAnd breake the imprison'd shaddowes of the deepe,And force from death this farre too worthy pray.She is not dead:The crimson red that like the morning shone,When from her windowes (all with Roses strewde)She peepeth forth, forsakes not yet her cheekes;Her breath, that like a hony-suckle smelt,Twining about the prickled Eglintine,Yet moves her lips; those quicke and piercing eyes,That did in beautie challenge heaven's eyes,[80]Yet shine as they were wont. O no, they doe not;See how they grow obscure. O see, they closeAnd cease to take or give light to the world.What starres so ere you are assur'd to graceThe[81] firmament (for, loe, the twinkling firesTogether throng and that cleare milky space,Of stormes andPhiadesand thunder void,Prepares your roome) do not with wry aspectLooke on yourNero, who in blood shall mourneYour lucklesse fate, and many a breathing souleSend after you to waite upon their Queene.This shall begin; the rest shall follow after,And fill the streets with outcryes and with slaughter.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Seneca with two of his friends.
Seneca. What meanes your mourning, this ungrateful sorrow?Where are your precepts ofPhilosophie,Where our prepared resolutionSo many yeeres fore-studied against danger?To whom isNeroescruelty unknowne,Or what remained after mothers bloodBut his instructors death? Leave, leave these teares;Death from me nothing takes but what's a burthen,A clog to that free sparke of Heavenly fire.But that inSenecathe which you lov'd,Which you admir'd, doth and shall still remaine,Secure of death, untouched of the grave.
1Friend. Weele not belie our teares; we waile not thee,It is our selves and our owne losse we grieve:To thee what losse in such a change can bee?Vertue is paid her due by death alone.To our owne losses do we give these teares,That loose thy love, thy boundlesse knowledge loose,Loose the unpatternd sample of thy vertue,Loose whatsoev'r may praise or sorrow move.In all these losses yet of this we glory,That 'tis thy happinesse that makes us sorry.
2Friend. If there be any place for Ghosts of good men,If (as we have bin long taught) great mens soulesConsume not with their bodies, thou shalt see(Looking from out the dwellings of the ayre)True duties to thy memorie perform'd;Not in the outward pompe of funerall,But in remembrance of thy deeds and words,The oft recalling of thy many vertues.The Tombe that shall th'eternall relickes keepeOfSenecashall be his hearers hearts.
Seneca. Be not afraid, my soule; goe cheerefullyTo thy owne Heaven, from whence it first let downe.Thou loathly[82] this imprisoning flesh putst on;Now, lifted up, thou ravisht shalt beholdThe truth of things at which we wonder here,And foolishly doe wrangle on beneath;And like a God shalt walk the spacious ayre,And see what even to conceit's deni'd.Great soule oth' world, that through the parts defus'dOf this vast All, guid'st what thou dost informe;You blessed mindes that from the[S]phearesyou move,Looke on mens actions not with idle eyes,And Gods we goe to, aid me in this strifeAnd combat of my flesh that, ending, IMay still shewSenecaand my selfe die.
[Exeunt.
Enter Antonius, Enanthe.
Anton. Sure this message of the Princes, So grievous and unlookt for, will appallPetroniusmuch.
Enan. Will not death any man?
Anton. It will; but him so much the moreThat, having liv'd to his pleasure, shall forgoeSo delicate a life. I doe not marvell[83]ThatSenecaand such sowre fellowes canLeave that they never tasted, but when weThat have theNectarof thy kisses felt,That drinkes away the troubles of this life,And but one banquet make[s] of forty yeeres,Must come to leave this;—but, soft, here he is.
Enter Petronius and a Centurion.
Petron. Leave me a while,Centurion, to my friends; Let me my farewell take, and thou shalt seeNeroescommandement quickly obaid in mee. [Ex. Centur. —Come, let us drinke and dash the posts with wine! Here throw your flowers; fill me a swelling bowle Such asMecenasor myLucandranke OnVirgillsbirth day.[84]
Enan. What meanes,Petronius, this unseasonable And causelesse mirth? Why, comes not from the Prince This man to you a messenger of death?
Petron. Here, faireEnanthe, whose plumpe, ruddy cheekeExceeds the grape!—It makes this[85]—here, my geyrle. (He drinks.)—And thinkst thou death a matter of such harme?Why, he must have this pretty dimpling chin,And will pecke out those eyes that now so wound.
Enan. Why, is it not th'extreamest of all ills?
Petron. It is indeed the last and end of ills.The Gods, before th'would let us tast deaths Ioyes,Plact us ith' toyle and sorrowes of this world,Because we should perceive th'amends and thanke them;Death, the grim knave, but leades you to the dooreWhere, entred once, all curious pleasures comeTo meete and welcome you.A troope of beauteous Ladies, from whose eyesLove thousand arrows, thousand graces shootes,Puts forth theire fair hands to you and invitesTo their greene arbours and close shadowed walkes,[86]Whence banisht is the roughness of our yeeres!Onely the west wind blowes, its[87] ever SpringAnd ever Sommer. There the laden bowesOffer their tempting burdens to your hand,Doubtful your eye or tast inviting more.There every man his owne desires enioyes;FairLucreselies by lustyTarquinsside,And woes him now againe to ravish her.Nor us, thoughRomane, Laiswill refuse;ToCorinth[88] any man may goe; no maske,No envious garment doth those beauties hide,Which Nature made so moving to be spide.But in bright Christall, which doth supply all,And white transparent vailes they are attyr'd,Through which the pure snow underneath doth shine;(Can it be snowe from whence such flames arise?)Mingled with that faire company shall weOn bankes ofVioletsand ofHiacinths,Of loves devising, sit and gently sport;And all the while melodious Musique heare,And Poets songs that Musique farre exceed,The oldAnaiccan[89] crown'd with smiling flowers,And amorousSaphoon her Lesbian LuteBeauties sweet Scarres and Cupids godhead sing.
Anton. What? be not ravisht with thy fancies; doe not Court nothing, nor make love unto our feares.
Petron. Is't nothing that I say?
Anton. But empty words.
Petron. Why, thou requir'st some instance of the eye.Wilt thou goe with me, then, and see that worldWhich either will returne thy old delights,Or square thy appetite anew to theirs?
Anton. Nay, I had rather farre believe thee here;Others ambition such discoveries seeke.Faith, I am satisfied with the base delightsOf common men. A wench, a house I have,And of my own a garden: Ile not changeFor all your walkes and ladies and rare fruits.
Petron. Your pleasures must of force resign to these:In vaine you shun the sword, in vaine the sea,In vaine isNerofear'd or flattered.Hether you must and leave your purchast houses,Your new made garden and your black browd wife,And of the trees thou hast so quaintly set,Not one but the displeasant Cipresse shallGoe with thee.[90]