ucan_. O _Mummius_, O _Flaminius_,
You whom your vertues have not made more famous
Than _Neros_ vices, you went ore to Greece
But t'other warres, and brought home other conquests;
You _Corinth_ and _Micaena_ overthrew,
And _Perseus_ selfe, the great _Achilles_ race,
Orecame; having _Minervas_ stayned Temples
And your slayne Ancestors of Troy reveng'd.

_Seneca_. They strove with Kings and Kinglike adversaries,
Were even in their Enemies made happie;
The _Macedonian_ Courage tryed of old
And the new greatnesse of the _Syrian_ power:
But he for _Phillip_ and _Antiochus_
Hath found more easie enemies to deale with--
_Terpnus_,[8] _Pammenes_,[9] and a rout of Fidlers.

_Scevin_. Why, all the begging Mynstrills by the way
He tooke along with him and forc'd to strive
That he might overcome, Imagining
Himselfe Immortall by such victories.

_Flav_. The Men he carried over were enough
T'have put the Parthian to his second flight
Or the proud Indian taught the Roman Yoke.

_Scevin_. But they were _Neroes_ men, like _Nero_ arm'd
With Lutes and Harps and Pipes and Fiddle-cases,
Souldyers to th'shadow traynd and not the field.

_Flav_. Therefore they brought spoyles of such Soldyers worthy.

_Lucan_. But to throw downe the walls[10] and Gates of Rome
To make an entrance for an Hobby-horse;
To vaunt to th'people his rediculous spoyles;
To come with Lawrell and with Olyves crown'd
For having beene the worst of all the Singers,
Is beyond Patience.

_Scevin_. I, and anger too.
Had you but seene him in his Chariot ryde,
That Chariot in which _Augustus_ late
His Triumphs ore so many Nations shew'd,
And with him in the same a Minstrell plac'd
The whil'st the people, running by his side,
'_Hayle thou Olimpick Conqueror_' did cry,
'_O haile thou Pithian_!' and did fill the sky
With shame and voices Heaven would not have heard.

_Seneca_. I saw't, but turn'd away my eyes and eares,
Angry they should be privie to such sights.
Why do I stand relating of the storie
Which in the doing had enough to grieve me?
Tell on and end the tale, you whom it pleaseth;
Mee mine own sorrow stops from further speaking.
_Nero_, my love doth make thy fault and my griefe greater.
[_Ex. Sen_.

_Scevin_. I doe commend in Seneca this passion;
And yet me thinkes our Countries miserie
Doth at our hands crave somewhat more then teares.

_Lucan_. Pittie, though't doth a kind affe