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.

(SCENE 4.)

Soft Musique.  Enter Nero above alone with a Timbrell.