Poppea.  Yet in your Greekish iourney, we do heare, Sparta and Athens, the two eyes of Greece, Neither beheld your person or your skill; Whether because they did afford no games Or for their too much gravitie.

Nero.  Why, what
Should I have seene in them? but in the one
Hunger, black pottage and men hot to die
Thereby to rid themselves of misery: 
And what in th’other? but short Capes, long Beards;
Much wrangling in things needlesse to be knowne,
Wisedome in words and onely austere faces. 
I will not be Aieceleaus nor Solon. 
Nero was there where he might honour win;
And honour hath he wonn and brought from Greece
Those spoyles which never Roman could obtaine,
Spoyles won by witt and Tropheis of his skill.

Nimph.  What a thing he makes it to be a Minstrill!

Poppea.  I prayse your witt, my Lord, that choose such safe Honors, safe spoyles, won without dust or blood.

Nero.  What, mock ye me, Poppea?

Poppea.  Nay, in good faith, my Lord, I speake in earnest: 
I hate that headie and adventurous crew
That goe to loose their owne to purchase but
The breath of others and the common voyce;
Them that will loose their hearing for a sound,
That by death onely seeke to get a living,
Make skarrs there beautie and count losse of Limmes
The commendation of a proper man,
And soe goe halting to immortality—­
Such fooles I love worse then they doe their lives.

Nero.  But now, Poppea, having laid apart Our boastfull spoyles and ornaments of Triumph, Come we like Jove from Phlegra—­

Poppea.  O Giantlike comparison!

Nero.  When after all his Fiers and wandering darts
He comes to bath himselfe in Juno’s eyes. 
But thou, then wrangling Juno farre more fayre,
Stayning the evening beautie of the Skie
Or the dayes brightnesse, shall make glad thy Caesar,
Shalt make him proud such beauties to Inioy.
          
                              [Exeunt.

    Manet Nimphidius solus.

Nimph.  Such beauties to inioy were happinesse
And a reward sufficient in itselfe,
Although no other end or hopes were aim’d at;
But I have other:  tis not Poppeas armes
Nor the short pleasures of a wanton bed
That can 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.