(SCENE 3.)

Enter Seneca, Petronius.

Seneca. Petronius, you were at the Theater?

Petron. Seneca, I was, and saw your Kingly Pupyll In Mynstrills habit stand before the Iudges Bowing those hands which the worlds Scepter hold, And with great awe and reverence beseeching Indifferent hearing and an equall doome. Then Caesar doubted first to be oreborne; And so he ioyn'd himselfe to th'other singers And 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 would Corrupt 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 not See him a Player, nor the fearefull voyce Of Romes great Monarch now command in Iest— Our Prince be Agamemnon[46] in a Play!

Petron. Why,[47] Seneca, 'Tis better in [a] Play Be Agamemnon than himselfe indeed. How oft, with danger of the field beset Or with home mutineys, would he unbee Himselfe; or, over cruel alters weeping, Wish that with putting off a vizard hee Might his true inward sorrow lay aside. The showes of things are better then themselves. How doth it stirre this ayery part of us To heare our Poets tell imagin'd fights And the strange blowes that fained courage gives! When I[48] Achilles heare upon the Stage Speake Honour and the greatnesse of his soule, Me thinkes I too could on a Phrygian Speare Runne boldly and make tales for after times; But when we come to act it in the deed Death mars this bravery, and the ugly feares Of 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!

2 Rom. 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 hill Orewhelmes the fields, orewhelmes the hopefull toyle Oth' husbandman and headlong beares the woods; The unweeting Shepheard on a Rocke afarre Amazed heares the feareful noyse; so here Danger 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 goods And 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 kill Their absent Murderer.

Petron. What, are the Gauls returnd? Doth Brennus brandish fire-brands againe?

Seneca. What can Heaven now unto our suffrings adde?

Enter another Romane to them.

Rom. O all goes downe, Rome falleth from the Roofe; The winds aloft, the conquering flame turnes all Into it selfe. Nor doe the Gods escape; Plei[a]des burnes; Iupiter, Saturne burnes; The Altar now is made a sacrifice, And Vesta mournes 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 devided To make but our fires bigger? You Gods, whose anger made us great, grant yet Some change in misery. We begge not now To have our Consull tread on Asian Kings Or spurne the quivered Susa at their feet; This we have had before: we beg to live, At least not thus to die. Let Cannae[52] come, Let Allias[53] waters turne again to blood: To these will any miseries be light.

Petron. Why with false Auguries have we bin deceiv'd? Why was our Empire told us should endure With 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 late But now the pitie of the world! the Getes[54]? The men of Cholcos at thy sufferings grive; The shaggy dweller in the Scithian Rockes, The Mosch[55] condemned to perpetual snowes, That never wept at kindreds burials Suffers with thee and feeles his heart to soften. O should the Parthyan heare these miseries He would (his low and native hate apart[56]) Sit downe with us and lend an Enemies teare To grace the funerall fires of ending Rome.

[Exeunt.