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.

(SCENE 3.)

    Enter Seneca, Petronius.