Anton.  This comfort yet:  He shall not so escape
Who causeth my disgrace, Nimphidius;
Whom had I here—­Well, for my true-hearts love
I see she hates me.  And shall I love one
That hates me, and bestowes what I deserve
Upon my rivall?  No; farewell Poppea,
Farewell Poppea and farewell all Love: 
Yet thus much shall it still prevaile in me
That I will hate Nimphidius for thee.

Petron.  Farewell to her, to my Enanthe welcome. 
Who now will to my burning kisses stoope,
Now with an easie cruelty deny
That which she, rather then the asker, would
Have forced from her then begin[16] her selfe. 
Their loves that list upon great Ladies set;
I still will love the Wench that I can get.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Nero, Tigellinus, Epaphroditus, and Neophilus.

Nero. Tigellinus, said the villaine Proculus[17] I was throwne downe in running?

Tigell.  My Lord, he said that you were crown’d for that You could not doe.

Nero.  For that I could not doe? 
Why, Elis saw me doe’t, and doe’t it with wonder
Of all the Iudges and the lookers on;
And yet to see—­A villaine! could not doe’t? 
Who did it better?  I warrant you he said
I from the Chariot fell against my will.

Tigell.  He said, My Lord, you were throwne out of it All crusht and maim’d and almost bruis’d to death.

Nero.  Malicious Rogue! when I fell willingly
To show of purpose with what little hurt
Might a good rider beare a forced fall. 
How sayest thou, Tigellinus?  I am sure
Thou hast in driving as much skill as he.

Tigell.  My Lord, you greater cunning shew’d in falling Then had you sate.

Nero.  I know I did; or[18] bruised in my fall? 
Hurt!  I protest I felt no griefe in it. 
Goe, Tigellinus, fetch the villaines head. 
This makes me see his heart in other things. 
Fetch me his head; he nere shall speake againe. [Ex.  Tigell. 
What doe we Princes differ from the durt
And basenesse of the common Multitude
If to the scorne of each malicious tongue
We subiect are:  For that I had no skill,[19]
Not he that his farre famed daughter set
A prise to Victoria and had bin Crown’d
With thirteene Sutors deaths till he at length
By fate of Gods and Servants treason fell,
(Shoulder pack’t[20] Pelops, glorying in his spoyles)
Could with more skill his coupled horses guide. 
Even as a Barke that through the mooving Flood
Her linnen wings and the forc’t ayre doe beare;
The Byllowes fome, she smoothly cutts them through;
So past my burning Axeltree along: 
The people follow with their Eyes and Voyce,
And now the wind doth see it selfe outrun
And the Clouds wonder to be left behind,
Whilst the void ayre is fild with shoutes and noyse,
And Neroes name doth beate the brazen Skie;
Jupiter envying loath doth heare my praise. 
Then their greene bowes and Crownes of Olive wreaths,
The Conquerors praise, they give me as my due. 
And yet this Rogue sayth No, we have no skill.