(SCENE 2.)

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 of Agripp[40]—Clytemnestras death, 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 know Appollo cannot 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, O Caesar, Then whom no power of heaven I honour more, No mortall Voice can passe or equall thine.

Nero. They tell of Orpheus, when he tooke his Lute And moov'd the noble Ivory with his touch, Hebrus stood still, Pangea bow'd his head, Ossa then first shooke off his snowe and came To listen to the moovings of his song; The gentle Popler tooke the baye along, And call'd the Pyne downe from his Mountaine seate; The Virgine Bay, although the Arts she hates Oth' Delphick God, was with his voice orecome; He his twice-lost Euridice bewailes And Proserpines vaine gifts, and makes the shores And hollow caves of forrests now untreed Beare his griefe company, and all things teacheth His lost loves name; Then water, ayre, and ground Euridice, Euridice resound. These are bould tales, of which the Greeks have store; But if he could from Hell once more returne And would compare his hand and voice with mine, I, though himselfe were iudge, he then should see How much the Latine staines the Thracian lyar. I oft have walkt by Tibers flowing bankes And 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 ayres And ceast th'eternall Musicke of the Spheares To 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 comes Tigellinus; come, thy bill. Are there so many? I see I have enemies.

Epaphr. Have you put Caius in? I saw him frowne.

Neoph. And in the midst oth' Emperors action. Gallus laught 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 did Thrasea looke 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 heretofore By singling out them one by one to death: Each common man can such revenges have; A Princes anger must lay desolate Citties, Kingdomes consume, Roote up mankind. O could I live to see the generall end, Behold the world enwrapt in funerall flame, When as the Sunne shall lend his beames to burne What he before brought forth, and water serve Not to extinguish but to nurse the fire; Then, like the Salamander, bathing me In the last Ashes of all mortall things Let me give up this breath. Priam was happie, Happie indeed; he saw his Troy burnt And Illion lye on heapes, whilst thy pure streames (Divine Scamander) did run Phrygian blood, And heard the pleasant cries of Troian mothers. Could I see Rome so!

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 Man That 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 trees And spend in woods my unregarded vengeance, Ide shevire them downe upon their guilty roofes And 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 above Will with faire words or childrens cryes be wonne, That have a stile beyond that Heaven is proud off, Deriving not from Art a makers Name But in destruction power and terror shew, To you I flye for succour; you, whose dwellings For torments are belyde, must give me ease. Furies, lend me your fires; no, they are here, They must be other fires, materiall brands That 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.