Scevin.  His long continued taxes I forbeare,
In which he chiefely showed him to be Prince;
His robbing Alters,[75] sale of Holy things,
The Antique Goblets of adored rust
And sacred gifts of kings and people sold. 
Nor was the spoile more odious than the use
They were imployd on; spent on shame and lust,
Which still have bin so endless in their change
And made us know a divers servitude. 
But that he hath bin suffered so long
And prospered, as you say; for that to thee,
O Heaven, I turne my selfe and cry, “No God
Hath care of us.”  Yet have we our revenge,
As much as Earth may be reveng’d on Heaven: 
Their divine honour Nero shall usurpe,
And prayers and feasts and adoration have
As well as Iupiter.

Nimph.  Away, blaspheming tongue, Be ever silent for thy bitternesse.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 5.)

Enter Nero, Poppaea, Tigellinus, Flavius, Neophilus,
Epaphroditus, and a yong man.

Nero.  What could cause thee, Forgetfull of my benefits and thy oath, To seeke my life?

Flav. Nero, I hated thee: 
Nor was there any of thy souldiers
More faithful, while thou faith deserv’dst, then I.
Together did I leave to be a subject,
And thou a Prince.  Caesar was now become
A Player on the Stage, a Waggoner,
A burner of our houses and of us,
A Paracide of Wife and Mother.[76]

Tigell.  Villaine, dost know where and of whom thou speakst?

Nero.  Have you but one death for him?  Let it bee A feeling one; Tigellinus, bee’t[77] Thy charge, and let me see thee witty in’t.

Tigell.  Come, sirrah; Weele see how stoutly you’le stretch out your necke.

Flav.  Wold thou durst strike as stoutly.
                    [Exit Tigell. and Flav.

Nero.  And what’s hee there?

Epaphr.  One that in whispering oreheard[78] What pitie ’twas, my Lord, that Pisoe died.

Nero.  And why was’t pitie, sirrah, Pisoe died?

Yong.  My Lord, ’twas pitie he deserv’d to die.

Poppaea.  How much this youth my Otho doth resemble; (aside.) Otho my first, my best love who is now (Under pretext of governing) exyl’d To Lucitania, honourably banish’t.

Nero.  Well, if you be so passionate, Ile make you spend your pitie on your Prince And good men, not on traytors.

Yong.  The Gods forbid my Prince should pitie need. 
Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirre
Oth’ fraile and weake condition of our kind,
Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterday
The world but Caesar could shew nothing higher. 
Besides, some vertues and some worth he had,
That might excuse my pitie to an end
So cruell and unripe.