Enter Petronius and a Centurion.

Petron.  Leave me a while, Centurion, to my friends; Let me my farewell take, and thou shalt see Neroes commandement quickly obaid in mee. [Ex.  Centur.  —­Come, let us drinke and dash the posts with wine!  Here throw your flowers; fill me a swelling bowle Such as Mecenas or my Lucan dranke On Virgills birth day.[84]

Enan.  What meanes, Petronius, this unseasonable And causelesse mirth?  Why, comes not from the Prince This man to you a messenger of death?

Petron.  Here, faire Enanthe, whose plumpe, ruddy cheeke Exceeds the grape!—­It makes this[85]—­here, my geyrle. (He drinks.) —­And thinkst thou death a matter of such harme?  Why, he must have this pretty dimpling chin, And will pecke out those eyes that now so wound.

Enan.  Why, is it not th’extreamest of all ills?

Petron.  It is indeed the last and end of ills. 
The Gods, before th’would let us tast deaths Ioyes,
Plact us ith’ toyle and sorrowes of this world,
Because we should perceive th’amends and thanke them;
Death, the grim knave, but leades you to the doore
Where, entred once, all curious pleasures come
To meete and welcome you. 
A troope of beauteous Ladies, from whose eyes
Love thousand arrows, thousand graces shootes,
Puts forth theire fair hands to you and invites
To their greene arbours and close shadowed walkes,[86]
Whence banisht is the roughness of our yeeres! 
Onely the west wind blowes, its[87] ever Spring
And ever Sommer.  There the laden bowes
Offer their tempting burdens to your hand,
Doubtful your eye or tast inviting more. 
There every man his owne desires enioyes;
Fair Lucrese lies by lusty Tarquins side,
And woes him now againe to ravish her. 
Nor us, though Romane, Lais will refuse;
To Corinth[88] any man may goe; no maske,
No envious garment doth those beauties hide,
Which Nature made so moving to be spide. 
But in bright Christall, which doth supply all,
And white transparent vailes they are attyr’d,
Through which the pure snow underneath doth shine;
(Can it be snowe from whence such flames arise?)
Mingled with that faire company shall we
On bankes of Violets and of Hiacinths,
Of loves devising, sit and gently sport;
And all the while melodious Musique heare,
And Poets songs that Musique farre exceed,
The old Anaiccan[89] crown’d with smiling flowers,
And amorous Sapho on her Lesbian Lute
Beauties sweet Scarres and Cupids godhead sing.

Anton.  What? be not ravisht with thy fancies; doe not Court nothing, nor make love unto our feares.

Petron.  Is’t nothing that I say?

Anton.  But empty words.