ung
And Garlands up, is to the Pallace gone.
'Twas beyond wonder; I shall never see,
Nay, I never looke to see the like againe:
Eighteen hundred and eight Crownes
For severall victories, and the place set downe
Where, and in what, and whom he overcame.

4 _Rom_. That was set down ith' tables that were borne
Upon the Souldiers speares.

1 _Rom_. O made, and sometimes use[d] for other Ends!

2 _Rom_. But did he winne them all with singing?

3 _Rom_. Faith, all with singing and with stage-playing.

1 _Rom_. So many Crowns got with a song!

4 _Rom_. But did you marke the Greek Musitians
Behind his Chariot, hanging downe their heads,
Sham'd and overcome in their professions?
O Rome was never honour'd so before.

3 _Rom_. But what was he that rode ith' Chariot with him?

4 _Rom_. That was _Diodorus_ the Mynstrill that he favours.

3 _Rom_. Was there ever such a Prince!

2 _Rom_. O _Nero Augustus_, the true _Augustus!_

3 _Rom_. Nay, had you seen him as he rode along
With an _Olimpicke_ Crowne upon his head
And with a _Pythian_ on his arme, you would have thought,
Looking on one, he had _Apollo_ seem'd,
On th'other, _Hercules_.

2 _Rom_. I have heard my father oft repeat the Triumphs
Which in _Augustus Caesars_ tymes were showne
Upon his Victorie ore the _Illirians_;
But it seemes it was not like to this.

3 & 4 _Rom_. Push,[6] it could not be like this.

2, 3 & 4 _Rom_. O _Nero, Appollo, Nero, Hercules!

[Exeunt 2, 3 & 4 Rom.

Manet Primus_.

1 _Rom_. Whether _Augustus_ Triumph greater was
I cannot tell; his Triumphs cause, I know,
Was greater farre and farre more Honourable.
What are wee People, or our flattering voyces
That always shame and foolish things applaud,
Having no sparke of Soule? All eares and eyes,
Pleased with vaine showes, deluded by our sences,
Still enemies to wisedome and to goodnesse.
[_Exit_.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter _Nero, Poppea, Nimphidius, Epaphroditus,
Neophilus_ and others.

_Nero_. Now, fayre _Poppea_, see thy Nero shine
In bright _Achaias_ spoyles and Rome in him.
The _Capitall_ hath other Trophies seene
Then it was wont; not spoyles with blood bedew'd
Or the unhappy obsequies of Death,
But such as _Caesars_ cunning, not his force,
Hath wrung from _Greece_ too bragging of her art.

_Tigell_. And in this strife the glories all your owne,
Your tribunes cannot share this prayse with yo