Mili. Neroes life is sought;[62]
The sword’s prepar’d against anothers breast,
The helpe for his.  It can be no private foe,
For then ’twere best to make it knowne and call
His troupes of bond and freed men to his aide. 
Besides his Counsellors, Seneca
And Lucan, are no Managers of quarrels.

Scevin.  Me thinkes I see him struggling on the ground, Heare his unmanly outcries and lost prayers Made to the Gods which turne their heads away. Nero, this day must end the worlds desires And head-long send thee to unquenched fires. [Exit.

Mili.  Why doe I further idly stand debating? 
My proofes are but too many and too frequent,
And Princes Eares still to suspitions open. 
Who ever, being but accus’d, was quit? 
For States are wise and cut of ylls that may be. 
Meane men must die that t’other may sleepe sound. 
Chiefely that[63] rule whose weaknes, apt to feares,
And bad deserts of all men makes them know
There’s none but is in heart what hee’s accused.
          
                                  [Exit.

Finis Actus Tertii.

Actus Quartus.

Enter Nero, Poppaea, Nimphidius, Tigellinus, Neophilus,
and Epaphroditus_.

Nero.  This kisse, sweete love Ile force from thee, and this;
And of such spoiles and victories be prowder
Than if I had the fierce Pannonian
Or gray-eyed German ten times overcome. 
Let Iulius goe and fight at end oth’ world
And conquer from the wilde inhabitants
Their cold and poverty, whilst Nero here
Makes other warres, warres where the conquerd gaines,
Where to orecome is to be prisoner. 
O willingly I give my freedome up
And put on my owne chaines,
And am in love with my captivitie. 
Such Venus is when on the sandy shore
Of Xanthus or on Idas pleasant greene
She leades the dance; her the Nymphes all a-rowe[64]
And smyling graces do accompany. 
If Bacchus could his stragling Mynion
Grace with a glorious wreath of shining Starres,
Why should not Heaven my Poppaea Crowne? 
The Northerne teeme shall move into a round,
New constellations rise to honour thee;
The earth shall wooe thy favours and the Sea
Lay his rich shells and treasure at thy feete. 
For thee Hidaspis shall throw up his gold,
Panchaia breath the rich delightful smells;
The Seres and the feather’d man of Inde
Shall their fine arts and curious labours bring;
And where the Sunn’s not knowne Poppaeas name
Shall midst their feasts and barbarous pompe be sung.

Poppea.  I, now I am worthy to be Queene oth’ world,
Fairer then Venus or the Bacchus love;
But you’le anon unto your cutt-boy[65] Sporus,
Your new made woman; to whom now, I heare,
You are wedded too.