t Courses fill the streets,
Not _Pirrhus_ nor thou, _Hanniball_, art Author:
Sad _Rome_ is ruin'd by a _Romane_ hand.
But if to _Neroes_ end this onely way
Heavens Justice hath chose out, and peoples love
Could not but by these feebling ills be mov'd,
We doe not then at all complaine; our harmes
On this condition please us; let us die
And cloy the _Parthian_ with revenge and pitie.

_Mili_. My Master hath seald up his Testament;
Those bond-men which he liketh best set free;
Given money, and more liberally then he us'd.
And now, as if a farewell to the world
Were meant, a sumpteous banquet hath he made;
Yet not with countenance that feasters use,
But cheeres his friends the whilest himselfe lookes sad.

_Scevin_. I have from Fortunes Temple[60] tane this sword;
May it be fortunate and now at least,
Since it could not prevent, punish the Evill.
To _Rome_ it had bin better done before,
But though lesse helping now they'le praise it more.
Great Soveraigne of all mortall actions.
Whom only wretched men and Poets blame,
Speed thou the weapon which I have from thee.
'Twas not amid thy Temple Monuments
In vaine repos'd; somewhat I know't hath done:
O with new honours let it be laid up.
Strike bouldly, arme; so many powerful prayers
Of dead and living hover over thee.

_Mili_. And though sometimes with talk impertinent
And idle fances he would fame a mirth,
Yet is it easie seene somewhat is heere
The which he dares not let his face make shew of.

_Scevin_. Long want of use[61] hath made it dull and blunt.--
See, _Milichus_, this weapon better edg'd.

_Mili_. Sharpning of swords? When must wee then have blowes?
Or meanes my Master, _Cato_-like, to exempt
Himselfe from power of Fates and, cloy'd with life,
Give the Gods backe their unregarded gift?
But he hath neither _Catoes_ mind nor cause;
A man given ore to pleasures and soft ease.
Which makes me still to doubt how in affaires
Of Princes he dares meddle or desires.

_Scevin_. We shall have blowes on both sides.--_Milichus_,
Provide me store of cloathes to bind up wounds.--
What an't be heart for heart; Death is the worst.
The Gods sure keepe it, hide from us that live.
How sweet death is because we should goe on
And be their bailes.--There are about the house
Some stones that will stanch blood; see them set up.--
This world I see hath no felicitie:
Ile trie the other.

_Mili_. _Neroes_ life is sought;[62]
The sword's prepar'd against anothers