Chapter I: Part 1

A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOL. I

In Four Volumes

EDITED BY

A.H. BULLEN.

1882-1889

CONTENTS:

The Tragedy of Nero The Mayde's Metamorphosis The Martyr'd Souldier The Noble Souldier

_PREFACE_.

Most of the Plays in the present Collection have not been reprinted, and some have not been printed at all. In the second volume there will be published for the first time a fine tragedy (hitherto quite unknown) by Massinger and Fletcher, and a lively comedy (also quite unknown) by James Shirley. The recovery of these two pieces should be of considerable interest to all students of dramatic literature.

The Editor hopes to give in Vol. III. an unpublished play of Thomas Heywood. In the fourth volume there will be a reprint of the _Arden of Feversham_, from the excessively rare quarto of 1592.

INTRODUCTION TO THE _TRAGEDY OF NERO_.

Of the many irreparable losses sustained by classical literature few are more to be deplored than the loss of the closing chapters of Tacitus' _Annals_. Nero, it is true, is a far less complex character than Tiberius; and there can be no question that Tacitus' sketch of Nero is less elaborate than his study of the elder tyrant. Indeed, no historical figure stands out for all time with features of such hideous vividness as Tacitus' portrait of Tiberius; nowhere do we find emphasised with such terrible earnestness, the stoical poet's anathema against tyrants "Virtutem videant intabescantque relicta." Other writers would have turned back sickened from the task of following Tiberius through mazes of cruelty and craft. But Tacitus pursues his victim with the patience of a sleuth-hound; he seems to find a ruthless satisfaction in stripping the soul of its coverings; he treads the floor of hell and watches with equanimity the writhings of the damned. The reader is at once strangely attracted and repelled by the pages of Tacitus; there is a weird fascination that holds him fast, as the glittering eye of the Ancient Mariner held the Wedding Guest. It was owing partly, no doubt, to the hideousness of the subject that the Elizabethan Dramatists shrank from seeking materials in the _Annals_; but hardly the abominations of Nero or Tiberius could daunt such daring spirits as Webster or Ford. Rather we must impute their silence to the powerful mastery of Tacitus; it was awe that held them from treading in the historian's steps. Ben Jonson ventured on the enchanted ground; but not all the fine old poet's wealth of classical learning, not his observance of the dramatic proprieties nor his masculine intellect, could put life into the dead bones of Sejanus or conjure up the muffled sinister figure of Tiberius. Where Ben Jonson failed, the unknown author of the _Tragedy of Nero_ has, to some extent, succeeded.

After reading the first few opening-lines the reader feels at once that this forgotten old play is the work of no ordinary man. The brilliant scornful figure of Petronius, a character admirably sustained throughout, rivets his attention from the first. In the blank verse there is the true dramatic ring, and the style is "full and heightened." As we read on we have no cause for disappointment. The second scene which shows us the citizens hurrying to witness the triumphant entry of Nero, is vigorous and animated. Nero's boasting is pitched in just the right key; bombast and eloquence are equally mixt. If he had been living in our own day Nero might possibly have made an ephemeral name for himself among the writers of the Sub-Swinburnian School. His longer poems were, no doubt, nerveless and insipid, deserving the scornful criticism of Tacitus and Persius; but the fragments preserved by Seneca shew that he had some skill in polishing far-fetched conceits. Our playwright has not fallen into the error of making Nero "out-Herod Herod"; through the crazy raptures we see the ruins of a nobler nature. Poppaea's arrowy sarcasms, her contemptuous impatience and adroit tact are admirable. The fine irony of the following passage is certainly noticeable:--

"_Pop_. I prayse your witt, my Lord, that choose such safe
Honors, safe spoyles, worm without dust or blood.

_Nero_. What, mocke ye me, Poppaea.

_Pop_. Nay, in good faith, my Lord, I speake in earnest:
I hate that headie and adventurous crew
That goe to loose their owne to purchase but
The breath of others and the common voyce;
Them that will loose their hearing for a sound,
That by death onely seeke to get a living,
Make skarres their beautie and count losse of Limmes
The commendation of a proper man,
And so goe halting to immortality,--
Such fooles I love worse then they doe their lives."

It is indeed strange to find such lines as those in the work of an unknown author. The verses gain strength as they advance, and the diction is terse and keen. This one short extract would suffice to show that the writer was a literary craftsman of a very high order.

In the fourth scene, where the conspirators are met, the writer's power is no less strikingly shown. Here, if anywhere, his evil genius might have led him astray; for no temptation is stronger than the desire to indulge in rhetorical displays. Even the author of _Bothwell_, despite his wonderful command of language, wearies us at times by his vehement iteration. Our unknown playwright has guarded himself against this fault; and, steeped as he was to the lips in classical learning, his abstinence must have cost him some trouble. My notes will shew that he had not confined himself to Tacitus, but had studied Suetonius and Dion Cassius, Juvenal and Persius. He makes no parade of his learning, but we see that he has lived among his characters, leaving no source of information unexplored. The meeting of the conspirators is brought before our eyes with wonderful vividness. Scevinus' opening speech glows and rings with indignation. Seneca, in more temperate language, bewails the fall of the high hopes that he had conceived of his former pupil, finely moralizing that "High fortunes, like strong wines, do trie their vessels." Some spirited lines are put into Lucan's mouth:--

"But to throw downe the walls and Gates of Rome
To make an entrance for an Hobby-horse;
To vaunt to th'people his ridiculous spoyles;
To come with Lawrell and with Olyves crown'd
For having been the worst of all the singers,
Is beyond Patience!"

In another passage the grandiloquence and the vanity of the poet of the _Pharsalia_ are well depicted.

The second act opens with Antonius' suit to Poppaea, which is full of passion and poetry, but is not allowed to usurp too much room in the progress of the play. Then, in fine contrast to the grovelling servility of the Emperor's creatures, we see the erect figure of the grand stoic philosopher, Persius' tutor, Cornutus, whose free-spokenness procures him banishment. Afterwards follows a second conference of the conspirators, in which scene the author has followed closely in the steps of Tacitus.

One of the most life-like passages in the play is at the beginning of the third act, where Nimphidius describes to Poppaea how the weary audience were imprisoned in the theatre during Nero's performance, with guards stationed at the doors, and spies on all sides scanning each man's face to note down every smile or frown. Our author draws largely upon Tacitus and the highly-coloured account of Suetonius; but he has, besides, a telling way of his own, and some of his lines are very happy. Poppaea's wit bites shrewdly; and even Nimphidius' wicked breast must have been chilled at such bitter jesting as:--

"How did our Princely husband act _Orestes_?
Did he not wish againe his Mother living?
_Her death would add great life unto his part_."

As Nero approaches his crowning act of wickedness, the burning of Rome, his words assume a grim intensity. The invocation to the severe powers is the language of a man at strife at once with the whole world and himself. In the representation of the burning of Rome it will perhaps be thought that the author hardly rises to the height of his theme. The Vergilian simile put into the mouth of Antonius is distinctly misplaced; but as our author so seldom offends in this respect he may be pardoned for the nonce. It may seem a somewhat crude treatment to introduce a mother mourning for her burnt child, and a son weeping over the body of his father; but the naturalness of the language and the absence of extravagance must be commended. Some of the lines have the ring of genuine pathos, as here:--

"Where are thy counsels, where thy good examples?
_And that kind roughness of a Father's anger_?"

The scene immediately preceding contains the noble speech of Petronius quoted by Charles Lamb in the _Specimens_. In a space of twenty lines the author has concentrated a world of wisdom. One knows not whether to admire more the justness of the thought or the exquisite finish of the diction. Few finer things have been said on the _raison d'être_ of tragedy from the time when Aristotle in the _Poetics_ formulated his memorable dictum. The admirable rhythmical flow should be noted. There is a rare suppleness and strength in the verses; we could not put one line before another without destroying the effect of the whole; no verse stands out obstinately from its fellows, but all are knit firmly, yet lightly, together: and a line of magnificent strength fitly closes a magnificent passage. Hardly a sonnet of Shakespeare or Mr. Rossetti could be more perfect.

At the beginning of the fourth act, when the freedman Milichus discloses Piso's conspiracy, Nero's trepidation is well depicted. It is curious that among the conspirators the author should not have introduced the dauntless woman, Epicharis, who refused under the most cruel tortures to betray the names of her accomplices, and after biting out her tongue died from the sufferings that she had endured on the rack. "There," as mad Hieronymo said, "you could show a passion." Even Tacitus, who upbraids the other conspirators with pusillanimity, marks his admiration of this noble woman. No reader will quarrel with the playwright if he has thought fit to paint the conspirators in brighter colours than the historian had done. When Scevinus is speaking we seem to be listening to the voice of Shakespeare's Cassius: witness the exhortation to Piso,--

"O _Piso_ thinke,
Thinke on that day when in the _Parthian_ fields
Thou cryedst to th'flying Legions to turne
And looke Death in the face; he was not grim,
But faire and lovely when he came in armes."

The character of Piso, for whom Tacitus shows such undisguised contempt, is drawn with kindliness and sympathy. Seneca, too, who meets with grudging praise from the stern historian, stands out ennobled in the play. His bearing in the presence of death is admirably dignified; and the polite philosopher, whose words were so faultless and whose deeds were so faulty, could hardly have improved upon the chaste diction of the farewell address assigned him by the playwright.

While Seneca's grave wise words are still ringing in our ears we are called to watch a leave-taking of a different kind. No reader of the _Annals_ can ever forget the strange description of the end of Petronius;--how the man whose whole life had "gone, like a revel, by" neither faltered, when he heard his doom pronounced, nor changed a whit his wonted gaiety; but dying, as he had lived, in abandoned luxury, sent under seal to the emperor, in lieu of flatteries, the unblushing record of their common vices. The obscure playwright is no less impressive than the world-renowned historian. While Antonius and Enanthe are picturing to themselves the consternation into which Petronius will be thrown by the emperor's edict, the object of their commiseration presents himself. Briefly dismissing the centurion, he turns with kindling cheek to his scared mistress--"Come, let us drink and dash the posts with wine!" Then he discourses on the blessings of death; he begins in a semi-ironical vein, but soon, forgetful of his auditors, is borne away on the wings of ecstacy. The intense realism of the writing is appalling. He speaks as a "prophet new inspired," and we listen in wonderment and awe. The language is amazingly strong and rich, and the imagination gorgeous.

At the beginning of the fifth act comes the news of the rising of Julius Vindex. Like a true coward Nero makes light of the distant danger; but when the rumours fly thick and fast he gives way to womanish passionateness, idly upbraiding the gods instead of consulting for his own safety. His despair and terror when he perceives the inevitable doom are powerfully rendered. The fear of the after-world makes him long for annihilation; his imagination presents to him "the furies arm'd with linkes, with whippes, with snakes," and he dreads to meet his mother and those "troopes of slaughtered friends" before the tribunal of the Judge

"That will not leave unto authoritie,
Nor favour the oppressions of the great."

But, fine as it undoubtedly is, the closing scene of the play bears no comparison with the pathetic narrative of Suetonius. Riding out, muffled, from Rome amid thunder and lightning, attended but by four followers, the doomed emperor hears from the neighbouring camp the shouts of the soldiers cursing the name of Nero and calling down blessings on Galba. Passing some wayfarers on the road, he hears one of them whisper, "Hi Neronem persequuntur;" and another asks, "Ecquid in urbe novi de Nerone?" Further on his horse takes fright, terrified by the stench from a corpse that lay in the road-side: in the confusion the emperor's face is uncovered, and at that moment he is recognized and saluted by a Praetorian soldier who is riding towards the City. Reaching a by-path, they dismount and make their way hardly through reeds and thickets. When his attendant, Phaon, urged him to conceal himself in a sandpit, Nero "negavit se vivum sub terram iturum;" but soon, creeping on hands and knees into a cavern's mouth, he spread a tattered coverlet over himself and lay down to rest. And now the pangs of hunger and thirst racked him; but he refused the coarse bread that his attendants offered, only taking a draught of warm water. Then he bade his attendants dig his grave and get faggots and fire, that his body might be saved from indignities; and while these preparations were being made he kept moaning "qualis artifex pereo!" Presently comes a messenger bringing news that Nero had been adjudged an "enemy" by the senate and sentenced to be punished "more majorum." Enquiring the nature of the punishment, and learning that it consisted in fastening the criminal's neck to a fork and scourging him, naked, to death, the wretched emperor hastily snatched a pair of daggers and tried the edges; but his courage failed him and he put them by, saying that "not yet was the fatal moment at hand." At one time he begged some one of his attendants to show him an example of fortitude by dying first; at another he chid himself for his own irresolution, exclaiming: [Greek: "ou prepei Neroni, ou prepei--naephein dei en tois toioutois--age, egeire seauton."] But now were heard approaching the horsemen who had been commissioned to bring back the emperor alive. The time for wavering was over: hurriedly ejaculating the line of Homer,

[Greek: "Hippon m'okypodon amphi ktypos ouata ballei,"]

he drove the steel into his throat. To the centurion, who pretended that he had come to his aid and who vainly tried to stanch the wound, he replied "_Sero_, et _Haec est fides_!" and expired.

Such is the tragic tale of horror told by Suetonius. Nero's last words in the play "O _Rome_, farewell," &c., seem very poor to "_Sero_ et _Haec est fides_"; but, if the playwright was young and inexperienced, we can hardly wonder that his strength failed him at this supreme moment. Surely the wonder should rather be that we find so many noble passages throughout this anonymous play. Who the writer may have been I dare not conjecture. In his fine rhetorical power he resembles Chapman; but he had a far truer dramatic gift than that great but chaotic writer. He is never tiresome as Chapman is, who, when he has said a fine thing, seems often to set himself to undo the effect. His gorgeous imagination and his daring remind us of Marlowe; the leave-taking of Petronius is certainly worthy of Marlowe. He is like Marlowe, too, in another way,--he has no comic power and (wiser, in this respect, than Ford) is aware of his deficiency. We find in _Nero_ none of those touches of swift subtle pathos that dazzle us in the _Duchess of Malfy_; but we find strokes of sarcasm no less keen and trenchant. Sometimes in the ring of the verse and in turns of expression, we seem to catch Shakespearian echoes; as here--

"Staid men suspect their wisedome or their faith,
To whom our counsels we have not reveald;
And while (our party seeking to disgrace)
They traitors call us, each man treason praiseth
_And hateth faith, when Piso is a traitor_." (iv. i);

or here--

"'Cause you were lovely therefore did I love:
O, if to Love you anger you so much,
You should not have such cheekes nor lips to touch:
You should not have your snow nor curral spy'd;--
_If you but look on us, in vain you chide:
We must not see your Face, nor heare your speech:
Now, while you Love forbid, you Love doe teach_."

I am inclined to think that the tragedy of _Nero_ was the first and last attempt of some young student, steeped in classical learning and attracted by the strange fascination of the _Annals_,--of one who, failing to gain a hearing at first, never courted the breath of popularity again; just as the author of _Joseph and his Brethren_, when his noble poem fell still-born from the press, turned contemptuously away and preserved thenceforward an unbroken silence. It should be noticed that the 4to. of 1633 is not really a new edition; it is merely the 4to. of 1624, with a new title-page. In a copy bearing the later date I found a few unimportant differences of reading; but no student of the Elizabethan drama needs to be reminded that _variae lectiones_ not uncommonly occur in copies of the same edition. The words "newly written" on the title-page are meant to distinguish the _Tragedy of Nero_ from the wretched _Tragedy of Claudius Tiberius Nero_ published in 1607.

But now I will bring my remarks to a close. It has been at once a pride and a pleasure to me to rescue this fine old play from undeserved oblivion. There is but one living poet whose genius could treat worthily the tragical story of Nero's life and death. In his three noble sonnets, "The Emperor's Progress," Mr. Swinburne shows that he has pondered the subject deeply: if ever he should give us a Tragedy of Nero, we may be sure that one more deathless contribution would be added to our dramatic literature.

_Addenda_ and _Corrigenda_.

After _Nero_ had been printed I found among the Egerton MSS. (No. 1994), in the British Museum, a transcript in a contemporary hand. The precious folio to which it belongs contains fifteen plays: of these some will be printed entire in Vols. II and III, and a full account of the other pieces will be given in an appendix to Vol. II. The transcript of _Nero_ is not by any means so accurate as the printed copy; and sometimes we meet with the most ridiculous mistakes. For instance, on p. 82 for "Beauties sweet _Scarres_" the MS. gives "Starres"; on p. 19 for "Nisa" ("not _Bacchus_ drawn from _Nisa_") we find "Nilus"; and in the line "Nor us, though _Romane, Lais_ will refuse" (p. 81) the MS. pointlessly reads "Ladies will refuse." On the other hand, many of the readings are a distinct improvement, and I am glad to find some of my own emendations confirmed. But let us start _ab initio_:--

p. 13, l. 4. 4to. Imperiall tytles; MS. Imperial stuffe.

p. 14, l. 3. 4to. small grace; MS. sale grace.--The allusion in the following line to the notorious "dark lights" makes the MS. reading certain.--Lower down for "and other of thy blindnesses" the MS. gives "another": neither reading is intelligible.

p. 17, l. 5. MS. rightly gives "_cleave_ the ayre."

p. 30, l. 2. "Fatu[m']st in partibus illis || Quas sinus abscondit. Petron."--added in margin of MS.

p. 31, l. 17. 4to. _or_ bruised in my fall; MS. _I_ bruised in my fall!

p. 32, l. 4. 4to. Shoulder pack't Peleus; MS. Shoulder peac'd. The MS. confirms my emendation "shoulder-piec'd."

p. 32, l. 13. 4to. shoutes and noyse; MS. shoutes and triumphs.--From this point to p. 39 (last line but one) the MS. is defective.

p. 40, l. 8. 4to. _our_ visitation; MS. _or_ visitation.

p. 42, l. 11. 4to. others; MS. ours.

p. 46, l. 22. 4to. Wracke out; MS. wreake not.

p. 47, l. 17. 4to. Toth' the point of _Agrippa_; MS. tooth' prince [sic] of Agrippinas.

p. 54, l. 2. 4to. _Pleides_ burnes; _Jupiter Saturne_ burnes; MS. _Alcides_ burnes, _Jupiter Stator_ burnes.

p. 54, l. 23. 4to. thee gets; in MS. _gets_ has been corrected, by a different hand, into _Getes_.

p. 54, l. 26. 4to. the most condemned; MS. the ------ condemned: a blank is unfortunately left in the MS.

p. 56, l. 20. 4to. writhes; MS. wreathes.

p. 59, l. 1. MS. I now command the souldyer _of the_ Cyttie.

p. 61, l. 13. The MS. preserves the three following lines, not found in the printed copy--

"High spirits soaring still at great attempts,
And such whose wisdomes, to their other wrongs,
Distaste the basenesse of the government."

p. 62, l. 15. 4to. are we; MS. arowe.

p. 66, l. 4 "Sed quis custodiet ipsos || Custodes. Juvenal"--noted in margin of MS.

p. 68, l. 15. 4to. Galley-asses? MS. gallowses.

p. 69, l. 1. The MS. makes the difficulty even greater by reading--

"Silver colour [sic] on the _Medaean_ fields
Not _Tiber_ colour."

p. 75, l. 2. 4to. One that in whispering oreheard; MS. one that this fellow whispring I oreharde.

p. 78, l. 22. 4to. from whence _it_ first let down; MS. from whence _at_ first let down.

p. 80. In note (1) for "Eilius Italicus" read "Silius Italicus."

p. 127. In note (2) for "_Henry IV_" read _I Henry IV_.

p. 182, l. 6. Dele [?]. The sense is quite plain if we remember that soldiers degraded on account of misconduct were made "pioners": vid. commentators on _Othello_, iii. 3. Hence "pioner" is used for "the meanest, most ignorant soldier."

p. 228. In note (2) for "earlle good wine" read "Earlle good-wine."

p. 236. In note (2) after "[Greek: _staphis_] and" add "[Greek: _agria_]."

p. 255. The lines "To the reader of this Play" are also found at the end of T. Heywood's "Royal King and Loyal Subject."

p. 257, l. 1. I find (on turning to Mr. Arbor's _Transcript_) that the _Noble Spanish Souldier_ had been previously entered on the Stationers' Registers (16 May, 1631), by John Jackman, as a work of Dekker's. Since the sheets have been passing through the press, I have become convinced that Dekker's share was more considerable than I was willing to allow in the prefatory _Note_.

p. 276. Note (2) is misleading; the reading of the 4to "flye-boat" is no doubt right. "Fly-boat" comes from Span. filibote, flibote--a fast-sailing vessel. The Dons hastily steer clear of the rude soldier.

p. 294. In note (1) for "Bayford ballads" read "Bagford Ballads."

THE TRAGEDY OF NERO,

_Newly Written_.

Imprinted at _London_ by _Augustine Mathewes_, and _John Norton_, for _Thomas Jones_, and are to bee sold at the blacke Raven in the Strand, 1624.

The Tragedie of Nero.

_Actus Primus_.

Enter _Petronius Arbyter, Antonius Honoratus_.

_Petron_. Tush, take the wench I showed thee now, or else some other seeke. What? can your choler no way be allayed But with Imperiall tytles? Will you more tytles[1] unto _Caesar_ give?

_Anto_. Great are thy fortunes _Nero_, great thy power, Thy Empyre lymited with natures bounds; Upon thy ground the Sunne doth set and ryse; The day and night are thine, Nor can the Planets, wander where they will, See that proud earth that feares not _Caesars_ name. Yet nothing of all this I envy thee; But her, to whom the world unforst obayes, Whose eye's more worth then all it lookes upon; In whom all beautyes Nature hath enclos'd That through the wide Earth or Heaven are dispos'd.

_Petron_. Indeed she steales and robs each part o'th world With borrowed beauties to enflame thine eye: The Sea, to fetch her Pearle, is div'd into; The Diomond rocks are cut to make her shine; To plume her pryde the Birds do naked sing: When my Enanthe, in a homely gowne--

_Anto_. Homely, I faith.

_Petron_. I, homely in her gowne, But looke vpon her face and that's set out With no small grace; no vayled shadowes helpe. Foole! that hadst rather with false lights and darke Beguiled be then see the ware thou buyest.

_Poppea_ royally attended, and passe over the Stage in State.

_Anto_. Great Queene[2], whom Nature made to be her glory, Fortune got eies and came to be thy servant, Honour is proud to be thy tytle; though Thy beauties doe draw up my soule, yet still So bright, so glorious is thy Maiestie That it beates downe againe my clyming thoughts.

_Petron_. Why, true; And other of thy blindnesses thou seest[?] Such one to love thou dar'st not speake unto. Give me a wench that will be easily had Not woed with cost, and being sent for comes: And when I have her foulded in mine armes Then _Cleopatra_ she, or _Lucres_ is; Ile give her any title.

_Anto_. Yet not so much her greatnesse and estate My hopes disharten as her chastitie.

_Petron_. Chastitie! foole! a word not knowne in Courts. Well may it lodge in meane and countrey homes Where povertie and labour keepes them downe, Short sleepes and hands made hard with _Thuscan_ Woll, But never comes to great mens Pallaces Where ease and riches stirring thoughts beget, Provoking meates and surfet wines inflame; Where all there setting forth's but to be wooed, And wooed they would not be but to be wonne. Will one man serve _Poppea_? nay, thou shalt Make her as soone contented with an [one?] eye.

_Nimphidius_ to them.

_Nimph_. Whil'st _Nero_ in the streetes his Pageants shewes I to his fair wives chambers sent for am. You gracious Starres that smiled on my birth, And thou bright Starre more powerful then them all, Whose favouring smiles have made me what I am, Thou shalt my God, my Fate and fortune be. [Ex. _Nimph_.

_Anto_. How sausely yon fellow Enters the Empresse Chamber.

_Petron_. I, and her too, _Antonius_, knowest thou him?

_Anto_. What? knowe the only favorite of the Court? Indeed, not many dayes ago thou mightest Have not unlawfully askt that question.

_Petron_. Why is he rais'd?[3]

_Anto_. That have I sought in him But never peece of good desert could find. He is _Nimphidia's_ sonne, the free'd woman, Which basenesse to shake off he nothing hath But his own pride?

_Petron_. You remember when _Gallus, Celsus_, And others too, though now forgotten, were Great in _Poppeas_ eyes?

_Anton_. I doe, and did interpret it in them An honorable favor she bare vertue. Or parts like vertue.

_Petron_. The cause is one of theirs and this man's Grace. I once was great in wavering smiles of Court; I fell, because I knew. Since have I given My time to my owne pleasures, and would now Advise thee, too, to meane and safe delights: The thigh's as soft the sheepes back covereth As that with crimson and with Gold adorn'd. Yet, cause I see that thy restraind desires Cannot their owne way choose, come thou with me; Perhaps He shew thee means of remedie.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

1 _Rom_. Whither so fast, man? Whither so fast?

2 _Rom_. Whither but where your eares do lead you? To _Neros_ Triumphs and the shouts you heare.

1 _Rom_ Why? comes he crown'd with _Parthian_ overthrow And brings he _Volegesus_ with him chain'd?

2 _Rom_. _Parthian_ overthrowne! why he comes crownd For victories which never Roman wonne; For having Greece in her owne arts overthrowne, In Singing, Dauncing, Horse-rase, Stage-playing. Never, O Rome had never such a Prince.

1 _Rom_. Yet, I have heard, our ancestors were crown'd For other Victories.

2 _Rom_. None of our ancestors were ere like him.

_Within: Nero, Apollo, Nero, Hercules_![4]

1 _Rom_. Harke how th'applauding shouts doe cleave the ayre,[5] This idle talke will make me loose the sight.

Two _Romans_ more to them.

3 _Rom_. Whither goe you? alls done i'th Capytall, And _Nero_, having there his tables hung 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 you; Here your _Centurions_ hath no part at all, Bootless your Armies and your Eagles were; No Navies helpt to bring away this conquest.

_Nimph_. Even Fortunes selfe, Fortune the Queene of Kingdomes, That Warrs grim valour graceth with her deeds, Will claime no portion in this Victorie.

_Nero_. Not _Bacchus_[7] drawn from Nisa downe with Tigers, Curbing with viny rains their wilful heads Whilst some doe gape upon his Ivy Thirse, Some on the dangling grapes that crowne his head, All praise his beautie and continuing youth; So strooke amased India with wonder As _Neroes_ glories did the Greekish townes, _Elis_ and _Pisa_ and the rich _Micenae, Junonian Argos_ and yet _Corinth_ proud Of her two Seas; all which ore-come did yeeld To me their praise and prises of their games.

_Poppea_. Yet in your _Greekish_ iourney, we do heare, _Sparta_ and _Athens_, the two eyes of _Greece_, Neither beheld your person or your skill; Whether because they did afford no games Or for their too much gravitie.

_Nero_. Why, what Should I have seene in them? but in the one Hunger, black pottage and men hot to die Thereby to rid themselves of misery: And what in th'other? but short Capes, long Beards; Much wrangling in things needlesse to be knowne, Wisedome in words and onely austere faces. I will not be Aieceleaus nor Solon. Nero was there where he might honour win; And honour hath he wonn and brought from _Greece_ Those spoyles which never Roman could obtaine, Spoyles won by witt and _Tropheis_ of his skill.

_Nimph_. What a thing he makes it to be a Minstrill!

_Poppea_. I prayse your witt, my Lord, that choose such safe Honors, safe spoyles, won without dust or blood.

_Nero_. What, mock ye me, _Poppea_?

_Poppea_. Nay, in good faith, my Lord, I speake in earnest: I hate that headie and adventurous crew That goe to loose their owne to purchase but The breath of others and the common voyce; Them that will loose their hearing for a sound, That by death onely seeke to get a living, Make skarrs there beautie and count losse of Limmes The commendation of a proper man, And soe goe halting to immortality-- Such fooles I love worse then they doe their lives.

_Nero_. But now, _Poppea_, having laid apart Our boastfull spoyles and ornaments of Triumph, Come we like _Jove_ from _Phlegra_--

_Poppea_. O Giantlike comparison!

_Nero_. When after all his Fiers and wandering darts He comes to bath himselfe in _Juno's_ eyes. But thou, then wrangling _Juno_ farre more fayre, Stayning the evening beautie of the Skie Or the dayes brightnesse, shall make glad thy _Caesar_, Shalt make him proud such beauties to Inioy. [_Exeunt_.

_Manet Nimphidius solus_.

_Nimph_. Such beauties to inioy were happinesse And a reward sufficient in itselfe, Although no other end or hopes were aim'd at; But I have other: tis not _Poppeas_ armes Nor the short pleasures of a wanton bed That can extinguish mine aspiring thirst To _Neroes_ Crowne. By her love I must climbe, Her bed is but a step unto his Throne. Already wise men laugh at him and hate him; The people, though his Mynstrelsie doth please them, They feare his cruelty, hate his exactions, Which his need still must force him to encrease; The multitude, which cannot one thing long Like or dislike, being cloy'd with vanitie Will hate their own delights; though wisedome doe not Even wearinesse at length will give them eyes. Thus I, by _Neroes_ and _Poppeas_ favour Rais'd to the envious height of second place, May gaine the first. Hate must strike Nero downe, Love make _Nimphidius_ way unto a Crowne.

[_Exit_.

(SCENE 4.)

_Enter Seneca, Scevinus, Lucan and Flavius_.

_Scevin_. His first beginning was his Fathers death; His brothers poysoning and wives bloudy end Came next; his mothers murther clos'd up all. Yet hitherto he was but wicked, when The guilt of greater evills tooke away the shame Of lesser, and did headlong thrust him forth To be the scorne and laughter to the world. Then first an Emperour came upon the stage And sung to please Carmen and Candle-sellers, And learnt to act, to daunce, to be a Fencer, And in despight o'the Maiestie of Princes He fell to wrastling and was soyl'd with dust And tumbled on the earth with servile hands.

_Seneca_. He sometimes trayned was in better studies And had a child-hood promis'd other hopes: High fortunes like stronge wines do trie their vessels. Was not the Race and Theatre bigge enough To have inclos'd thy follies heere at home? O could not _Rome_ and _Italie_ containe Thy shame, but thou must crosse the seas to shewe it?

_Scevin_. And make them that had wont to see our Consuls, With conquering Eagles waving in the field, Instead of that behold an Emperor dauncing, Playing oth' stage and what else but to name Were infamie.

_Lucan_. 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 affection show, If it end there, our weaknesse makes us know.

_Flav_. Let children weepe and men seeke remedie.

_Scevin_. Stoutly, and like a soldier, _Flavius_; Yet to seeke remedie to a Princes ill Seldome but it doth the Phisitian kill.

_Flav_. And if it doe, _Scevinus_, it shall take But a devoted soule from _Flavius_, Which to my Countrey and the Gods of Rome Alreadie sacred is and given away. Deathe is no stranger unto me, I have The doubtfull hazard in twelve Battailes throwne; My chaunce was life.

_Lucan_. Why doe we go to fight in Brittanie And end our lives under another Sunne? Seeke causelesse dangers out? The German might Enioy his Woods and his owne Allis drinke, Yet we walke safely in the streets of Rome; _Bonduca_ hinders not but we might live, Whom we do hurt. Them we call enemies, And those our Lords that spoyle and murder us.

_Scevin_. Nothing is hard to them that dare to die. This nobler resolution in you, Lords, Heartens me to disclose some thoughts that I-- The matter is of waight and dangerous.

_Lucan_. I see you feare us _Scaevinus_.[11]

_Scevin_. Nay, nay, although the thing be full of feare.

_Flav_. Tell it to faithfull Eares what eare it bee.

_Scevin_. Faith, let it goe, it will but trouble us, Be hurtfull to the speaker and the hearer.

_Lucan_. If our long friendship or the opinion--

_Scevin_. Why should I feare to tell them? Why, is he not a Parricide a Player? Nay, _Lucan_, is he not thine Enemie? Hate not the Heavens as well as men to see That condemn'd head? And you, O righteous Gods, Whither so ere you now are fled and will No more looke downe upon th'oppressed Earth; O severe anger of the highest Gods And thou, sterne power to whom the Greekes assigne Scourges and swords to punish proud mens wrongs, If you be more then names found out to awe us And that we doe not vainely build you alters, Aid that iust arme that's bent to execute What you should doe.

_Lucan_. Stay, y'are carried too much away, _Scevinus_.

_Scevin_. Why, what will you say for him? hath[12] he not Sought to suppresse your Poem, to bereave That honour every tongue in duty paid it. Nay, what can you say for him, hath he not Broacht his owne wives (a chast wives) breast and torne With Scithian hands his Mothers bowels up? The inhospitable _Caucasus_ is milde; The More, that in the boyling desert seekes With blood of strangers to imbrue his iawes, Upbraides the Roman now with barbarousnesse.

_Lucan_. You are to earnest: I neither can nor will I speake for him; And though he sought my learned paynes to wrong I hate him not for that; My verse shall live When _Neroes_ body shall be throwne in Tiber, And times to come shall blesse those[13] wicked armes. I love th'unnatural wounds from whence did flow Another Cirrha,[14] a new Hellicon. I hate him that he is Romes enemie, An enemie to Vertue; sits on high To shame the seate: and in that hate my life And blood I'le mingle on the earth with yours.

_Flav_. My deeds, _Scevinus_, shall speake my consent,

_Scevin_. Tis answerd as I lookt for, Noble Poet, Worthy the double Lawrell. Flavius, Good lucke, I see, doth vertuous meanings ayde, And therefore have the Heavens forborne their duties To grace our swords with glorious blood of Tyrants.

[_Exeunt_.

_Finis Actus Primi_.

_Actus Secundus_.

_Enter Petronius solus_.

Here waites _Poppea_ her _Nimphidius_ comming And hath this garden and these walkes chose out To blesse her with more pleasures then their owne. Not only Arras hangings and silke beds[15] Are guilty of the faults we blame them for: Somewhat these arbors and you trees doe know Whil'st your kind shades you to these night sports show. Night sports? Faith, they are done in open day And the Sunne see'th and envieth their play. Hither have I Love-sicke _Antonius_ brought And thrust him on occasion so long sought; Shewed him the Empresse in a thicket by, Her loves approach waiting with greedie Eye; And told him, if he ever meant to prove The doubtfull issue of his hopelesse Love, This is the place and time wherein to try it; Women will heere the suite that will deny it. The suit's not hard that she comes for to take; Who (hot in lust of men) doth difference make? At last loath, willing, to her did he pace: Arme him, _Priapus_, with thy powerfull Mace. But see, they comming are; how they agree Heere will I harken; shroud me, gentle tree.

_Enter Poppea and Antonius_.

_Anton_. Seeke not to grieve that heart which is thine owne. In Loves sweete fires let heat of rage burne out; These brows could never yet to wrinkle learne, Nor anger out of such faire eyes look forth.

_Poppea_. You may solicit your presumptious suites; You duety may, and shame too, lay aside; Disturbe my privacie, and I forsooth Must be afeard even to be angry at you!

_Anton_. What shame is't to be mastred by such beautie? Who but to serve you comes, how wants he dutie? Or, if it be a shame, the shame is yours; The fault is onely in your Eies, they drew me: Cause you were lovely therefore did I love. O, if to Love you anger you so much, You should not have such cheekes nor lips to touch, You should not have your snow nor currall spy'd;-- If you but looke on us in vaine you chide. We must not see your face, nor heare your speech; Now, whilst you Love forbid, you Love do teach.

_Petron_. He doth better than I thought he would.

_Poppea_. I will not learne my beauties worth of you; I know you neither are the first nor greatest Whom it hath mov'd: He whom the World obayes Is fear'd with anger of my threatening eyes. It is for you afarre off to adore it, And not to reach at it with sawsie hands: Feare is the Love that's due to God and Princes.

_Petron_. All this is but to edge his appetite.

_Anton_. O doe not see thy faire in that false glasse Of outward difference; Looke into my heart. There shalt thou see thy selfe Inthroaned set In greater Maiesty then all the pompe Of _Rome_ or _Nero_. Tis not the crowching awe And Ceremony with which we flatter Princes That can to Loves true duties be compar'd.

_Poppea_. Sir, let me goe or He make knowne your Love To them that shall requite it but with hate.

_Petron_. On, on, thou hast the goale; the fort is beaten; Women are wonne when they begin to threaten.

_Anton_. Your Noblenesse doth warrant me from that, Nor need you others helpe to punish me Who by your forehead am condem'd or free. They that to be revendg'd do bend their minde Seeke always recompence in that same kind The wrong was done them; Love was mine offence, In that revenge, in that seeke recompence.

_Poppea_. Further to answere will still cause replyes, And those as ill doe please me as your selfe. If you'le an answere take that's breefe and true, I hate my selfe if I be lov'd of you. [_Exit Popp_.

_Petron_. What, gone? but she will come againe sure: no? It passeth cleane my cunning, all my rules: For Womens wantonnesse there is no rule. To take her in the itching of her Lust, A propper young man putting forth himselfe! Why, Fate! there's Fate and hidden providence In cod piece matters.

_Anton_. O unhappy Man! What comfort have I now, _Petronius?_

_Petron_. Council your selfe; Ile teach no more but learne.

_Anton_. This comfort yet: He shall not so escape Who causeth my disgrace, _Nimphidius_; Whom had I here--Well, for my true-hearts love I see she hates me. And shall I love one That hates me, and bestowes what I deserve Upon my rivall? No; farewell _Poppea_, Farewell _Poppea_ and farewell all Love: Yet thus much shall it still prevaile in me That I will hate _Nimphidius_ for thee.

_Petron_. Farewell to her, to my _Enanthe_ welcome. Who now will to my burning kisses stoope, Now with an easie cruelty deny That which she, rather then the asker, would Have forced from her then begin[16] her selfe. Their loves that list upon great Ladies set; I still will love the Wench that I can get.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Nero, Tigellinus, Epaphroditus_, and _Neophilus_.

_Nero_. _Tigellinus_, said the villaine _Proculus_[17] I was throwne downe in running?

_Tigell_. My Lord, he said that you were crown'd for that You could not doe.

_Nero_. For that I could not doe? Why, _Elis_ saw me doe't, and doe't it with wonder Of all the Iudges and the lookers on; And yet to see--A villaine! could not doe't? Who did it better? I warrant you he said I from the Chariot fell against my will.

_Tigell_. He said, My Lord, you were throwne out of it All crusht and maim'd and almost bruis'd to death.

_Nero_. Malicious Rogue! when I fell willingly To show of purpose with what little hurt Might a good rider beare a forced fall. How sayest thou, _Tigellinus_? I am sure Thou hast in driving as much skill as he.

_Tigell_. My Lord, you greater cunning shew'd in falling Then had you sate.

_Nero_. I know I did; or[18] bruised in my fall? Hurt! I protest I felt no griefe in it. Goe, _Tigellinus_, fetch the villaines head. This makes me see his heart in other things. Fetch me his head; he nere shall speake againe. [_Ex. Tigell_. What doe we Princes differ from the durt And basenesse of the common Multitude If to the scorne of each malicious tongue We subiect are: For that I had no skill,[19] Not he that his farre famed daughter set A prise to Victoria and had bin Crown'd With thirteene Sutors deaths till he at length By fate of Gods and Servants treason fell, (Shoulder pack't[20] _Pelops_, glorying in his spoyles) Could with more skill his coupled horses guide. Even as a Barke that through the mooving Flood Her linnen wings and the forc't ayre doe beare; The Byllowes fome, she smoothly cutts them through; So past my burning Axeltree along: The people follow with their Eyes and Voyce, And now the wind doth see it selfe outrun And the Clouds wonder to be left behind, Whilst the void ayre is fild with shoutes and noyse, And _Neroes_ name doth beate the brazen Skie; _Jupiter_ envying loath doth heare my praise. Then their greene bowes and Crownes of Olive wreaths, The Conquerors praise, they give me as my due. And yet this Rogue sayth No, we have no skill.

_Enter a servant to them_.

_Servant_. My Lord, the Stage and all the furniture--

_Nero_. I have no skill to drive a Chariot! Had he but robde me, broke my treasurie: The red-Sea's mine, mine are the _Indian_ stones, The Worlds mine owne; then cannot I be robde? But spightfully to undermine my fame, To take away my arte! he would my life As well, no doubt, could he tould (tell?) how.

_Enter Tigellinus_ with _Proculus head_.

_Neoph_. My Lord, _Tigellinus_ is backe come with _Proculus head_. (_Strikes him_.)

_Nero_. O cry thee mercie, good _Neophilus_; Give him five hundred sesterces for amends. Hast brought him, Tigellinus?

_Tigell_. Heres his head, my Lord.

_Nero_. His tongue had bin enough.

_Tigell_. I did as you commanded me, my Lord.

_Nero_. Thou toldst not me, though, he had such a nose![21] Now are you quiet and have quieted me: This tis to be commander of the World. Let them extoll weake pittie that do neede it, Let meane men cry to have Law and Iustice done And tell their griefes to Heaven that heares them not: Kings must upon the Peoples headlesse courses Walk to securitie and ease of minde. Why, what have we to doe with th'ayrie names (That old age and _Philosophers_ found out) Of _Iustice_ and ne're certaine Equitie? The God's revenge themselves and so will we; Where right is scand Authoritie's orethrowne: We have a high prerogative above it. Slaves may do what is right, we what we please: The people will repine and think it ill, But they must beare, and praise too, what we will.

_Enter Cornutus[22] to them_.

_Neoph_. My Lord, _Cornutus_ whom you sent for's come.

_Nero_. Welcome, good _Cornutus_. Are all things ready for the stage, As I gave charge?

_Corn_. They only stay your coming.

_Nero_. _Cornutus_, I must act to day _Orestes_.

_Corn_. You have done that alreadie, and too truely. (_Aside_.)

_Nero_. And when our Sceane is done I meane besides To read some compositions of my owne, Which, for the great opinion I my selfe And _Rome_ in generall of thy Judgment hath, Before I publish them Ile shew them thee.

_Corn_. My Lord, my disabilities--

_Nero_. I know thy modestie: Ile only shew thee now my works beginning.-- Goe see, _Epaphroditus_, Musick made ready; I will sing to day.-- [_Exit Epa. Cornutus_, I pray thee come neere And let me heare thy Judgement in my paynes. I would have thee more familiar, good _Cornutus_; _Nero_ doth prise desert and more esteemes Them that in knowledge second him, then power. Marke with what style and state my worke begins.

_Corn_. Might not my Interruption offend, Whats your workes name, my Lord? what write you of?

_Nero_. I meane to write the deeds of all the Romans.

_Corn_. Of all the Romans? A huge argument.

_Nero_. I have not yet bethought me of a title:--
(_he reades_,)

"_You Enthrall Powers which[23] the wide Fortunes doon
Of Empyre-crown'd seaven-Mountaine-seated Rome,
Full blowne Inspire me with_ Machlaean[24] _rage
That I may bellow out_ Romes _Prentisage;
As[25] when the_ Menades _do fill their Drums
And crooked hornes with_ Mimalonean _hummes
And_ Evion[26] _do Ingeminate around,
Which reparable Eccho doth resound_."

How doest thou like our Muses paines, _Cornutus_?

_Corn_. The verses have more in them than I see: Your work, my Lord, I doubt will be too long.

_Nero_. Too long?

_Tigell_. Too long?

_Corn_. I, if you write the deedes of all the _Romans_. How many Bookes thinke you t'include it in?

_Nero_. I thinke to write about foure hundred Bookes.

_Corn_. Four hundred! Why, my Lord, they'le nere be read.[27]

_Nero_. Hah!

_Tigell_. Why, he whom you esteeme so much, _Crisippus_, Wrote many more.

_Corn_. But they were profitable to common life And did Men Honestie and Wisedome teach.

_Nero_. _Tigellinus_!

[Exit _Nero and Tigell_.

_Corn_. See with what earnestnesse he crav'd my Judgment, And now he freely hath it how it likes him.

_Neoph_. The Prince is angry, and his fall is neere; Let us begon lest we partake his ruines.

[_Exeunt omnes praeter Cornu_.