out the dwellings of the ayre)
True duties to thy memorie perform'd;
Not in the outward pompe of funerall,
But in remembrance of thy deeds and words,
The oft recalling of thy many vertues.
The Tombe that shall th'eternall relickes keepe
Of _Seneca_ shall be his hearers hearts.

_Seneca_. Be not afraid, my soule; goe cheerefully
To thy owne Heaven, from whence it first let downe.
Thou loathly[82] this imprisoning flesh putst on;
Now, lifted up, thou ravisht shalt behold
The truth of things at which we wonder here,
And foolishly doe wrangle on beneath;
And like a God shalt walk the spacious ayre,
And see what even to conceit's deni'd.
Great soule oth' world, that through the parts defus'd
Of this vast All, guid'st what thou dost informe;
You blessed mindes that from the _[S]pheares_ you move,
Looke on mens actions not with idle eyes,
And Gods we goe to, aid me in this strife
And combat of my flesh that, ending, I
May still shew _Seneca_ and my selfe die.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 7.)

_Enter Antonius, Enanthe_.

_Anton_. Sure this message of the Princes,
So grievous and unlookt for, will appall
_Petronius_ much.

_Enan_. Will not death any man?

_Anton_. It will; but him so much the more
That, having liv'd to his pleasure, shall forgoe
So delicate a life. I doe not marvell[83]
That _Seneca_ and such sowre fellowes can
Leave that they never tasted, but when we
That have the _Nectar_ of thy kisses felt,
That drinkes away the troubles of this life,
And but one banquet make[s] of forty yeeres,
Must come to leave this;--but, soft, here he is.

_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'e