our show be,
Your loves and readinesse to loose your lives,
The lother I am to adventure them.
Yet am I proud you would for me have dy'd;
But live, and keepe your selves to worthier ends.
No Mother but my owne shall weepe my death
Nor will I make, by overthrowing us,
Heaven guiltie of more faults yet; from the hopes
Your owne good wishes rather then the thing
Doe make you see, this comfort I receive
Of death unforst. O friends I would not die
When I can live no longer; 'tis my glory
That free and willing I give up this breath,
Leaving such courages as yours untri'd.
But to be long in talk of dying would
Shew a relenting and a doubtfull mind:
By this you shall my quiet thoughts intend;
I blame not Earth nor Heaven for my end.[72]
(_He dies_.)

_Lucan_. O that this noble courage had bin shewne
Rather on enemies breasts then on thy owne.

_Scevin_. But sacred and inviolate be thy will,
And let it lead and teach us.
This sword I could more willingly have thrust
Through _Neroes_ breast; that fortune deni'd me,
It now shall through _Scevinus_.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Enter Tigellinus solus_.

What multitudes of villaines are here gotten
In a conspiracy, which _Hydra_ like
Still in the cutting off increaseth more.
The more we take the more are still appeach[t],
And every man brings in new company.
I wonder what we shall doe with them all!
The prisons cannot hold more then they have,
The Iayles are full, the holes with Gallants stincke;
Strawe and gold lace together live, I thinke.
'Twere best even shut the gates oth' Citie up
And make it all one Iayle; for this I am sure,
There's not an honest man within the walles.
And, though the guilty doth exceed the free,[73]
Yet through a base and fatall cowardise
They all assist in taking one another
And by their owne hands are to prison led.
There's no condition nor degree of men
But here are met; men of the sword and gowne,
_Plebeians, Senators_, and women too;
Ladies that might have slaine him with their eye
Would use their hands; Philosophers
And Polititians. Polititians?
Their plot was laid too short. Poets would now
Not only write but be the arguments
Of Tragedies. The Emperour's much pleased:
But[74] some have named _Seneca_; and I
Will have _Petronius_. One promise of pardon
Or feare of torture will accusers find.
[_Exit_.

(SC