extinguish mine aspiring thirst
To Neroes Crowne. By her love I must climbe,
Her bed is but a step unto his Throne.
Already wise men laugh at him and hate him;
The people, though his Mynstrelsie doth please them,
They feare his cruelty, hate his exactions,
Which his need still must force him to encrease;
The multitude, which cannot one thing long
Like or dislike, being cloy'd with vanitie
Will hate their own delights; though wisedome doe not
Even wearinesse at length will give them eyes.
Thus I, by Neroes and Poppeas favour
Rais'd to the envious height of second place,
May gaine the first. Hate must strike Nero downe,
Love make Nimphidius way unto a Crowne.

[Exit.

(SCENE 4.)

Enter Seneca, Scevinus, Lucan and Flavius.

Scevin. His first beginning was his Fathers death;
His brothers poysoning and wives bloudy end
Came next; his mothers murther clos'd up all.
Yet hitherto he was but wicked, when
The guilt of greater evills tooke away the shame
Of lesser, and did headlong thrust him forth
To be the scorne and laughter to the world.
Then first an Emperour came upon the stage
And sung to please Carmen and Candle-sellers,
And learnt to act, to daunce, to be a Fencer,
And in despight o'the Maiestie of Princes
He fell to wrastling and was soyl'd with dust
And tumbled on the earth with servile hands.

Seneca. He sometimes trayned was in better studies
And had a child-hood promis'd other hopes:
High fortunes like stronge wines do trie their vessels.
Was not the Race and Theatre bigge enough
To have inclos'd thy follies heere at home?
O could not Rome and Italie containe
Thy shame, but thou must crosse the seas to shewe it?

Scevin. And make them that had wont to see our Consuls,
With conquering Eagles waving in the field,
Instead of that behold an Emperor dauncing,
Playing oth' stage and what else but to name
Were infamie.

Lucan. O Mummius, O Flaminius,
You whom your vertues have not made more famous
Than Neros vices, you went ore to Greece
But t'other warres, and brought home other conquests;
You Corinth and Micaena overthrew,
And Perseus selfe, the great Achilles race,
Orecame; having Minervas stayned Temples
And your slayne Ancestors of Troy reveng'd.

Seneca. They strove with Kings and Kinglike adversaries, Were even in their Enemies made happie; The Macedonian Courage tryed of old And the new greatnesse of the Syrian power: But he for Phillip and Antiochus Hath found more easie enemies to deale with— Terpnus,[8] Pammenes,[9] and a rout of Fidlers.

Scevin. Why, all the begging Mynstrills by the way
He tooke along with him and forc'd to strive
That he might overcome, Imagining
Himselfe Immortall by such victories.

Flav. The Men he carried over were enough T'have put the Parthian to his second flight Or the proud Indian taught the Roman Yoke.

Scevin. But they were Neroes men, like Nero arm'd With Lutes and Harps and Pipes and Fiddle-cases, Souldyers to th'shadow traynd and not the field.

Flav. Therefore they brought spoyles of such Soldyers worthy.

Lucan. But to throw downe the walls[10] and Gates of Rome
To make an entrance for an Hobby-horse;
To vaunt to th'people his rediculous spoyles;
To come with Lawrell and with Olyves crown'd
For having beene the worst of all the Singers,
Is beyond Patience.

Scevin. I, and anger too. Had you but seene him in his Chariot ryde, That Chariot in which Augustus late His Triumphs ore so many Nations shew'd, And with him in the same a Minstrell plac'd The whil'st the people, running by his side, 'Hayle thou Olimpick Conqueror' did cry, 'O haile thou Pithian!' and did fill the sky With shame and voices Heaven would not have heard.

Seneca. I saw't, but turn'd away my eyes and eares, Angry they should be privie to such sights. Why do I stand relating of the storie Which in the doing had enough to grieve me? Tell on and end the tale, you whom it pleaseth; Mee mine own sorrow stops from further speaking. Nero, my love doth make thy fault and my griefe greater. [Ex. Sen.

Scevin. I doe commend in Seneca this passion; And yet me thinkes our Countries miserie Doth at our hands crave somewhat more then teares.

Lucan. Pittie, though't doth a kind affection show, If it end there, our weaknesse makes us know.

Flav. Let children weepe and men seeke remedie.

Scevin. Stoutly, and like a soldier, Flavius; Yet to seeke remedie to a Princes ill Seldome but it doth the Phisitian kill.

Flav. And if it doe, Scevinus, it shall take
But a devoted soule from Flavius,
Which to my Countrey and the Gods of Rome
Alreadie sacred is and given away.
Deathe is no stranger unto me, I have
The doubtfull hazard in twelve Battailes throwne;
My chaunce was life.

Lucan. Why doe we go to fight in Brittanie
And end our lives under another Sunne?
Seeke causelesse dangers out? The German might
Enioy his Woods and his owne Allis drinke,
Yet we walke safely in the streets of Rome;
Bonduca hinders not but we might live,
Whom we do hurt. Them we call enemies,
And those our Lords that spoyle and murder us.

Scevin. Nothing is hard to them that dare to die.
This nobler resolution in you, Lords,
Heartens me to disclose some thoughts that I—
The matter is of waight and dangerous.

Lucan. I see you feare us Scaevinus.[11]

Scevin. Nay, nay, although the thing be full of feare.

Flav. Tell it to faithfull Eares what eare it bee.

Scevin. Faith, let it goe, it will but trouble us, Be hurtfull to the speaker and the hearer.

Lucan. If our long friendship or the opinion—

Scevin. Why should I feare to tell them?
Why, is he not a Parricide a Player?
Nay, Lucan, is he not thine Enemie?
Hate not the Heavens as well as men to see
That condemn'd head? And you, O righteous Gods,
Whither so ere you now are fled and will
No more looke downe upon th'oppressed Earth;
O severe anger of the highest Gods
And thou, sterne power to whom the Greekes assigne
Scourges and swords to punish proud mens wrongs,
If you be more then names found out to awe us
And that we doe not vainely build you alters,
Aid that iust arme that's bent to execute
What you should doe.

Lucan. Stay, y'are carried too much away, Scevinus.

Scevin. Why, what will you say for him? hath[12] he not
Sought to suppresse your Poem, to bereave
That honour every tongue in duty paid it.
Nay, what can you say for him, hath he not
Broacht his owne wives (a chast wives) breast and torne
With Scithian hands his Mothers bowels up?
The inhospitable