Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

_Pon._ He did me
All the disgrace he could.

_Pro._ And scurvily.

_Pon._ Out of a mischief meerly: did you mark it?

_Pro._ Yes well enough.
Now ye have means to quit it,
The deed done, take his place.

_Pon._ Pray let me think on't,
'Tis ten to one I do it.

_Pro._ Do and be happy.-- [_Exit_ Pro.

_Pon._ This Emperour is made of nought but mischief,
Sure, Murther was his Mother: none to lop,
But the main link he had? upon my conscience
The man is truly honest, and that kills him;
For to live here, and study to be true,
Is all one to be Traitors: why should he die?
Have they not Slaves and Rascals for their Offrings
In full abundance; Bawds more than beasts for slaughter?
Have they not singing whores enough, and knaves too,
And millions of such Martyrs to sink _Charon_,
But the best sons of _Rome_ must sail too? I will shew him
(since he must dye) a way to do it truly:
And though he bears me hard, yet shall he know,
I am born to make him bless me for a blow.-- [_Exit._

SCENE [IV].

_Enter_ Phidias, Aretus, _and_ Æcius.

_Phi._ Yet ye may 'scape to th' Camp, we'l hazard with ye.

_Aret._ Lose not your life so basely Sir: ye are arm'd,
And many when they see your sword out, and know why,
Must follow your adventure.

_Aeci._ Get ye from me:
Is not the doom of _Cæsar_ on this body,
Do not I bear my last hour here, now sent me?
Am I not old _Aecius_, ever dying?
You think this tenderness and love you bring me,
'Tis treason, and the strength of disobedience,
And if ye tempt me further, ye shall feel it:
I seek the Camp for safety, when my death
Ten times more glorious than my life, and lasting
Bids me be happy? Let the fool fear dying,
Or he that weds a woman for his honour,
Dreaming no other life to come but kisses;
_Aecius_ is not now to learn to suffer:
If ye dare shew a just affection, kill me,
I stay but those that must: why do ye weep?
Am I so wretched to deserve mens pities?
Goe give your tears to those that lose their worths,
Bewail their miseries, for me wear Garlands,
Drink wine, and much; sing _Peans_ to my praise,
I am to triumph friends, and more than _Cæsar_,
For _Cæsar_ fears to die, I love to die.

_Phi._ O my dear Lord!

_Aeci._ No more, goe, goe I say;
Shew me not signs of sorrow, I deserve none:
Dare any man lament, I should die nobly?
Am I grown old to have such enemies?
When I am dead, speak honourably of me,
That is, preserve my memory from dying;
There if you needs must weep your ruin'd Master,
A tear or two will seem well: this I charge ye,
(because ye say you yet love old _Aecius_)
See my poor body burnt, and some to sing
About my Pile, and what I have done and suffer'd,
If _Cæsar_ kill not that too: at your banquets
When I am gone, if any chance to number
The times that have been sad and dangerous,
Say how I fell, and 'tis sufficient:
No more I say, he that laments my end
By all the gods dishonours me; be gone
And suddainly, and wisely from my dangers,
My death is catching else.

_Phi._ We fear not dying.

_Aec._ Yet fear a wilfull death, the just Gods hate it,
I need no company to that that Children
Dare do alone, and Slaves are proud to purchase;
Live till your honesties, as mine has done,
Make this corrupted age sick of your vertues,
Then dye a sacrifice, and then ye know
The noble use of dying well, and _Roman_.

_Are._ And must we leave ye Sir?

_Aeci._ We must all die,
All leave our selves, it matters not where, when,
Nor how, so we die well: and can that man that does so
Need lamentation for him? Children weep
Because they have offended, or for fear;
Women for want of will, and anger; is there
In noble man, that truly feels both poyses
Of life and death, so much of this wet weakness,
To drown a glorious death in child and woman?
I am asham'd to see ye; yet ye move me,
And were it not my manhood would accuse me,
For covetous to live, I should weep with ye.

_Phi._ O we shall never see you more.

_Aeci._ 'Tis true;
Nor I the miseries that _Rome_ shall suffer,
Which is a benefit life cannot reckon:
But what I have been, which is just, and faithfull;
One that grew old for _Rome_, when _Rome_ forgot him,
And for he was an honest man durst die,
Ye shall have daily with ye: could that dye too,
And I return no traffick of my travels,
No pay to have been Souldier, but this Silver,
No _Annals_ of _Æcius_, but he liv'd,
My friends, ye had cause to weep, and bitterly;
The common overflows of tender women,
And children new born crying, were too little
To shew me then most wretched: if tears must be,
I should in justice weep 'em, and for you,
You are to live, and yet behold those slaughters
The drie, and wither'd bones of death would bleed at:
But sooner, than I have time to think what must be,
I fear you'l find what shall be;
If ye love me,
Let that word serve for all, be gone and leave me;
I have some little practice with my soul,
And then the sharpest sword is welcom'st; goe,
Pray be gone, ye have obey'd me living,
Be not for shame now stubborn; so I thank ye,
And fare ye well, a better fortune guide ye--

[_Exeunt_ Phi. _and_ Aretus.

I am a little thirstie, not for fear,
And yet it is a kind of fear, I say so;
Is it to be a just man now again,
And leave my flesh unthought of? 'tis departed:
I hear 'em come, who strikes first?
I stay for ye:

_Enter_ Balbus, Chilax, Licinius.

Yet I will dye a Souldier, my sword drawn,
But against none:
Why do ye fear? come forward.

_Bal._ You were a Souldier _Chilax_.

_Chil._ Yes, I muster'd
But never saw the Enemy.

_Lici._ He's drawn,
By heaven I dare not do it.

_Aeci._ Why do ye tremble?
I am to die, come ye not now from _Cæsar_
To that end, speak?

_Bal._ We do, and we must kill ye,
'Tis _Cæsars_ will.

_Chil._ I charge you put your sword up,
That we may do it handsomly.

_Aeci._ Ha, ha, ha,
My sword up, handsomly? where were ye bred?
Ye are the merriest murderers my masters
I ever met withal; Come forward fools,
Why do ye stare? upon mine honour Bawds,
I will not strike ye.

_Lici._ I'le not be first.

_Bal._ Nor I.

_Chil._ You had best die quietly: the Emperour
Sees how you bear your self.

_Aeci._ I would die Rascals,
If you would kill me quietly.

_Bal._ ---- of _Proculus_,
He promis'd us to bring a Captain hither,
That has been used to kill.

_Aeci._ I'le call the Guard,
Unless you will kill me quickly, and proclaim
What beastly, base, and cowardly companions
The Emperour has trusted with his safetie:
Nay I'le give out, ye fell of my side, villains,
Strike home ye bawdy slaves.

_Chil._ He will kill us,
I mark'd his hand, he waits but time to reach us,
Now do you offer.

_Aeci._ If ye do mangle me,
And kill me not at two blows, or at three,
Or not so stagger me, my senses fail me,
Look to your selves.

_Chil._ I told ye.

_Aeci._ Strike me manly,
And take a thousand strokes.--

_Enter_ Pontius.

_Bal._ Here's _Pontius_.

_Pon._ Not kill'd him yet?
Is this the love ye bear the Emperour?
Nay then I see ye are Traitors all, have at ye.-- [Lici. _runs away_.

_Chi._ Oh I am hurt.

_Bal._ And I am kill'd-- [_Exeunt_ Chil. _and_ Bal.

_Pon._ Dye Bawds;
As ye have liv'd and flourish'd.

_Aeci._ Wretched fellow,
What hast thou done?

_Pon._ Kill'd them that durst not kill,
And you are next.

_Aeci._ Art thou not _Pontius_?

_Pon._ I am the same you cast _Æcius_,
And in the face of all the Camp disgrac'd.

_Aec._ Then so much nobler, as thou wert a Souldier,
Shall my death be: is it revenge provok'd thee,
Or art thou hir'd to kill me?

_Pon._ Both.

_Aeci._ Then do it.

_Pon._ Is that all?

_Aeci._ Yes.

_Pon._ Would you not live?

_Aeci._ Why should I,
To thank thee for my life?

_Pon._ Yes, if I spare it.

_Aeci._ Be not deceiv'd, I was not made to thank
For any courtesie, but killing me,
A fellow of thy fortune; do thy duty.

_Pon._ Do not you fear me?

_Aeci._ No.

_Pon._ Nor love me for it?

_Aeci._ That's as thou dost thy business.

_Pon._ When you are dead,
Your place is mine _Æcius_.

_Aeci._ Now I fear thee,
And not alone thee _Pontius_, but the Empire.

_Pon._ Why, I can govern Sir.

_Aeci._ I would thou couldst,
And first thy self: Thou canst fight well, and bravely,
Thou canst endure all dangers, heats, colds, hungers;
Heavens angry flashes are not suddainer,
Than I have seen thee execute; nor more mortal;
The winged feet of flying enemies
I have stood and view'd thee mow away like rushes,
And still kill the killer: were thy minde,
But half so sweet in peace, as rough in dangers,
I died to leave a happy heir behind me;
Come strike, and be a General.

_Pon._ Prepare then:
And, for I see your honour cannot lessen,
And 'twere a shame for me to strike a dead man,
Fight your short span out.

_Aeci._ No thou knowst I must not,
I dare not give thee so much vantage of me,
As disobedience.

_Pon._ Dare ye not defend ye
Against your enemy?

_Aeci._ Not sent from _Cæsar_,
I have no power to make such enemies;
For as I am condemn'd, my naked sword
Stands but a hatchment by me; only held
To shew I was a Souldier; had not _Cæsar_
Chain'd all defence in this doom, let him die,
Old as I am, and quench'd with scarrs, and sorrows,
Yet would I make this wither'd Arm do wonders,
And open in an enemy such wounds
Mercy would weep to look on.

_Pon._ Then have at ye,
And look upon me, and be sure ye fear not:
Remember who you are, and why you live,
And what I have been to you: cry not hold,
Nor think it base injustice I should kill ye.

_Aeci._ I am prepar'd for all.

_Pon._ For now _Æcius_,
Thou shalt behold and find I was no traitor,
And as I do it, bless me; die as I do.-- [Pontius _kills himself_.

_Aeci._ Thou hast deceiv'd me _Pontius_, and I thank thee;
By all my hopes in Heaven, thou art a _Roman_.

_Pon._ To shew you what you ought to do, this is not;
For slanders self would shame to find you coward,
Or willing to out-live your honestie:
But noble Sir, ye have been jealous of me,
And held me in the rank of dangerous persons,
And I must dying say it was but justice,
Ye cast me from my credit; yet believe me,
For there is nothing now but truth to save me,
And your forgiveness, though ye held me hainous,
And of a troubled spirit, that like fire
Turns all to flames it meets with, ye mistook me;
If I were foe to any thing, 'twas ease,
Want of the Souldiers due, the Enemy
The nakedness we found at home, and scorn,
Children of peace, and pleasures, no regard
Nor comfort for our scars, but how we got 'em,
To rusty time, that eat our bodies up,
And even began to prey upon our honours,
To wants at home, and more than wants, abuses,
To them, that when the Enemy invaded
Made us their Saints, but now the sores of _Rome_;
To silken flattery, and pride plain'd over,
Forgetting with what wind their feathers sail,
And under whose protection their soft pleasures
Grow full and numberless: to this I am foe,
Not to the state, or any point of duty:
And let me speak but what a Souldier may,
Truly I ought to be so; yet I err'd,
Because a far more noble sufferer
Shew'd me the way to patience, and I lost it:
This is the end I die Sir; to live basely,
And not the follower of him that bred me,
In full account and vertue, _Pontius_ dare not,
Much less to out-live what is good, and flatter.

_Aeci._ I want a name to give thy vertue Souldier,
For only good is far below thee _Pontius_,
The gods shall find thee one; thou hast fashion'd death
In such an excellent, and beauteous manner,
I wonder men can live: Canst thou speak once more,
For thy words are such harmony, a soul
Would choose to flye to Heaven in.

_Pon._ A farewel:
Good noble General your hand, forgive me,
And think what ever was displeasing you,
Was none of mine: ye cannot live.

_Aeci._ I will not:
Yet one word more.

_Pon._ Dye nobly: _Rome_ farewel:
And _Valentinian_ fall, thou hast broke thy Basis.
In joy ye have given me a quiet death,
I would strike more wounds, if I had more breath-- [_He dyes._

_Aeci._ Is there an hour of goodness beyond this?
Or any man would out-live such a dying?
Would _Cæsar_ double all my honours on me,
And stick me o're with favours, like a Mistris;
Yet would I grow to this man: I have loved,
But never doated on a face till now:
O death thou art more than beautie, and thy pleasure
Beyond posterity: Come friends and kill me;
_Cæsar_ be kind, and send a thousand swords,
The more, the greater is my fall: why stay ye?
Come, and I'le kiss your weapons: fear me not,
By all the gods I'le honour ye for killing:
Appear, or through the Court, and world, I'le search ye:
My sword is gone; ye are Traitors if ye spare me,
And _Cæsar_ must consume ye: all base cowards?
I'le follow ye, and e're I dye proclaim ye
The weeds of _Italy_; the dross of nature--
Where are ye, villains, traytors, slaves.-- [_Exit._

_Enter_ Proculus, _and 3 others running over the Stage_.

_Pro._ I knew
H'ad kill'd the Captain.

_1._ Here's his sword.

_Pro._ Let it alone, 'twill fight it self else; friends,
An hundred men are not enough to do it,
I'le to the Emperour, and get more aid.

_Aeci._ None strike a poor condemned man?

_Pro._ He is mad:
Shift for your selves my Masters.-- [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Æcius.

_Æcius._ Then _Æcius_,
See what thou darst thy self; hold my good sword,
Thou hast been kept from bloud too long, I'le kiss thee,
For thou art more then friend now, my preserver,
Shew me the way to happiness, I seek it:
And all you great ones, that have faln as I do,
To keep your memories, and honours living,
Be present in your vertues, and assist me,
That like strong _Cato_, I may put away
All promises, but what shall crown my ashes;
_Rome_, fare thee well: stand long, and know to conquer
Whilst there is people, and ambition:
Now for a stroak shall turn me to a Star:
I come ye blessed spirits, make me room
To live for ever in _Elyzium_:
Do men fear this? O that posterity
Could learn from him but this, that loves his wound,
There is no pain at all in dying well,
Nor none are lost, but those that make their hell-- [_Kills himself._

_Enter_ Proculus, _and two others_.

1 _Within._ He's dead, draw in the Guard again.

_Pro._ He's dead indeed,
And I am glad he's gone; he was a Devil:
His body, if his Eunuchs come, is theirs;
The Emperour out of his love to vertue,
Has given 'em that: Let no man stop their entrance. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Phidias, _and_ Aretus.

_Phi._ O my most noble Lord, look here _Aretus_,
Here's a sad sight.

_Aret._ O cruelty! O _Cæsar_!
O times that bring forth nothing but destruction,
And over[fl]ows of bloud: why wast thou kill'd?
Is it to be a just man now again,
As when _Tiberius_ and wild _Nero_ reign'd,
Only assurance of his over throw?

_Phi[d]._ It is _Aretus_: he that would live now,
Must like the Toad, feed only on corruptions,
And grow with those to greatness: honest vertue,
And the true _Roman_ honour, faith and valour
That have been all the riches of the Empire,
Now like the fearfull tokens of the Plague,
Are meer fore-runners of their ends that owe 'em.

_Are._ Never enough lamented Lord: dear Master--

_Enter_ Maximus.

Of whom now shall we learn to live like men?
From whom draw out our actions just, and worthy?
Oh thou art gone, and gone with thee all goodness,
The great example of all equitie,
O thou alone a _Roman_, thou art perish'd,
Faith, fortitude, and constant nobleness,
Weep _Rome_, weep _Italy_, weep all that knew him,
And you that fear'd him as a noble Foe,
(If Enemies have honourable tears)
Weep this decay'd _Æcius_ faln, and scattered--
By foul, and base suggestion.

_Ph[i]._ O Lord _Maximus_,
This was your worthy friend.

_Max._ The gods forgive me:
Think not the worse my friends, I shed not tears,
Great griefs lament within; yet now I have found 'em:
Would I had never known the world, nor women,
Nor what that cursed name of honour was,
So this were once again _Æcius_:
But I am destin'd to a mighty action,
And begg my pardon friend, my vengeance taken,
I will not be long from thee: ye have a great loss,
But bear it patiently, yet to say truth
In justice 'tis not sufferable: I am next,
And were it now, I would be glad on't: friends,
Who shall preserve you now?

_Are._ Nay we are lost too.

_Max._ I fear ye are, for likely such as love
The man that's faln, and have been nourish'd by him,
Do not stay long behind: 'Tis held no wisdom.
I know what I must do. O my _Æcius_,
Canst thou thus perish, pluckt up by the roots,
And no man feel thy worthiness? From boys
He bred you both I think.

_Phi._ And from the poorest.

_Max._ And lov'd ye as his own.

_Are._ We found it Sir.

_Max._ Is not this a loss then?

_Phi._ O, a loss of losses;
Our lives, and ruines of our families,
The utter being nothing of our names,
Were nothing near it.

_Max._ As I take it too,
He put ye to the Emperour.

_Are._ He did so.

_Max._ And kept ye still in credit.

_Phi._ 'Tis most true Sir.

_Max._ He fed your Fathers too, and made them means,
Your Sisters he prefer'd to noble Wedlocks,
Did he not friends?

_Are._ Oh yes Sir.

_Max._ As I take it
This worthy man would not be now forgotten,
I tell ye to my grief, he was basely murdred;
And something would be done, by those that lov'd him:
And something may be: pray stand off a little,
Let me bewail him private: O my dearest.

_Phi._ _Aretus_, if we be not sudden, he outdoes us,
I know he points at ven[ge]ance; we are cold,
And base ungratefull wretches, if we shun it:
Are we to hope for more rewards, or greatness,
Or any thing but death, now he is dead?
Dar'st thou resolve?

_Are._ I am perfect.

_Phi._ Then like flowers
That grew together all we'l fall together,
And with us that that bore us: when 'tis done
The world shall stile us two deserving servants:
I fear he will be before us.

_Are._ This night _Phidias_.

_Phi._ No more.

_Max._ Now worthy friends I have done my mournings,
Let's burn this noble body: Sweets as many
As sun-burnt _Meroe_ breeds, I'le make a flame of,
Shall reach his soul in Heaven: he that shall live
Ten ages hence, but to reherse this story,
Shall with the sad discourse on't, darken Heaven,
And force the painful burdens from the wombs
Conceiv'd a new with sorrow: even the Grave
Where mighty _Sylla_ sleeps shall rend asunder
And give her shadow up, to come and groan
About our piles, which will be more, and greater
Than green _Olympus_, _Ida_, or old _Latmus_
Can feed with Cedar, or the East with Gums,
_Greece_ with her wines, or _Thessalie_ with flowers,
Or willing heaven can weep for in her showres. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Quintus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Phidias, _with his dagger in him, and_ Aretus, _poyson'd_.

_Are._ He has his last.

_Phi._ Then come the worst of danger,
_Æcius_ to thy soul we give a _Cæsar_.
How long is't since ye gave it him?

_Are._ An hour,
Mine own two hours before him: how it boils me!

_Phi._ It was not to be cur'd I hope.

_Are._ No _Phidias_,
I dealt above his Antidotes: Physicians
May find the cause, but where the cure?

_Phi._ Done bravely,
We are got before his Tyranny _Aretus_.

_Are._ We had lost our worthiest end else _Phidias_.

_Phi._ Canst thou hold out a while?

_Are._ To torture him
Anger would give me leave, to live an age yet;
That man is poorly spirited, whose life
Runs in his bloud alone, and not in's wishes,
And yet I swell, and burn like flaming _Ætna_,
A thousand new found fires are kindled in me,
But yet I must not die this four hours _Phidias_.

_Phi._ Remember who dies with thee, and despise death.

_Are._ I need no exhortation, the joy in me
Of what I have done, and why, makes poyson pleasure,
And my most killing torments mistresses.
For how can he have time to dye, or pleasure
That falls as fools unsatisfied, and simple?

_Phi._ This that consumes my life, yet keeps it in me,
Nor do I feel the danger of a dying,
And if I but endure to hear the curses
Of this fell Tyrant dead, I have half my Heaven.

_Are._ Hold thy soul fast but four hours _Phidias_,
And thou shalt see to wishes beyond ours,
Nay more beyond our meanings.

_Phi._ Thou hast steel'd me:
Farewel _Aretus_, and the souls of good men,
That as ours do, have left their _Roman_ bodies
In brave revenge for vertue, guide our shadows,
I would not faint yet.

_Are._ Farewel _Phidias_
And as we have done nobly, gods look on us.--

[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ Lycias, _and_ Proculus.

_Lyci._ Sicker, and sicker _Proculus_?

_Pro._ Oh _Lycias_,
What shall become of us? would we had di'd
With happy _Chilax_, or with _Balbus_, bedrid--

_Enter_ Licinius.

And made too lame for justice.

_Licinius._ The soft Musick;
And let one sing to fasten sleep upon him:
Oh friends, the Emperour.

_Pro._ What say the Doctors?

_Lici._ For us a most sad saying, he is poyson'd,
Beyond all cure too.

_L[y]ci._ Who?

_Lici._ The wretch _Aretus_,
That most unhappy villain.

_L[y]ci._ How do you know it?

_L[i]ci._ He gave him drink last: let's disperse and find him;
And since he has opened misery to all,
Let it begin with him first: Softly he slumbers.

_Enter_ Emperour, _sick in a Chair, with_ Eudoxia _the
Empress, and_ Physicians, _and Attendants_.

Musick and SONG.

_Care charming sleep, thou easer of all woes,_
_Brother to death, sweetly thy self dispose_
_On this afflicted Prince, fall like a Cloud_
_In gentle showrs, give nothing that is lowd,_
_Or painfull to his slumbers; easie, sweet,_
_And as a purling stream, thou son of night,_
_Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain_
_Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver Rain,_
_Into this Prince gently, Oh gently slide,_
_And kiss him into slumbers like a Bride._

_Emp._ O gods, gods: drink, drink, colder, colder
Than snow on _Scythian_ Mountains: O my heart-strings.

_Eudo._ How does your Grace?

_Phys._ The Empress speaks Sir.

_Emp._ Dying,
Dying _Eudoxia_, dying.

_Phys._ Good Sir patience.

_Eudo._ What have ye given him?

_Phys._ Pretious things dear Lady
We hope shall comfort him.

_Emp._ O flatter'd fool,
See what thy god-head's come to: Oh _Eudoxia_.

_Eudo._ O patience, patience Sir.

_Enter_ Proculus, Licinius, _with_ Aretus.

_Emp._ _Danubius_
I'le have brought through my body.

_Eudo._ Gods give comfort.

_Emp._ And _Volga_, on whose face the North wind freezes,
I find an hundred hells, a hundred Piles
Already to my Funerals are flaming,
Shall I not drink?

_Phys._ You must not Sir.

_Emp._ By Heaven
I'le let my breath out that shall burn ye all
If ye deny me longer: tempests blow me,
And inundations that have drunk up Kingdoms
Flow over me, and quench me: where's the villain?
Am I immortal now ye slaves? by _Numa_
If he do scape: Oh, oh.

_Eudo._ Dear Sir.

_Emp._ Like _Nero_,
But far more terrible, and full of slaughter,
I'th' midst of all my flames I'le fire the Empire:
A thousand fans, a thousand fans to cool me:
Invite the gentle winds _Eudoxia_.

_Eudo._ Sir.

_Emp._ Oh do not flatter me, I am but flesh,
A man, a mortal man: drink, drink, ye dunces;
What can your doses now do, and your scrapings,
Your oyles, and Mithridates? if I do die,
You only words of health, and names of sickness
Finding no true disease in man but mony,
That talk your selves into Revenues, oh
And e're ye kill your patients, begger 'em,
I'le have ye flead, and dri'd.

_Pro._ The Villain Sir;
The most accursed wretch.

_Emp._ Be gone my Queen,
This is no sight for thee: goe to the Vestals,
Cast holy incense in the fire, and offer
One powerfull sacrifice to free thy _Cæsar_.

_Pro._ Goe goe and be happy. [_Exit_ Eudox[i]a.

_Aret._ Goe, but give no ease,
The Gods have set thy last hour _Valentinian_,
Thou art but man, a bad man too, a beast,
And like a sensuall bloudy thing thou diest.

_Pro._ Oh Traitor.

_Aret._ Curse your selves ye flatterers,
And howle your miseries to come ye wretches,
You taught him to be poyson'd.

_Emp._ Yet no comfort?

_Aret._ Be not abus'd with Priests, nor Pothecaries,
They cannot help thee; Thou hast now to live
A short half hour, no more, and I ten minutes:
I gave thee poyson for _Aecius_ sake,
Such a destroying poyson would kill nature;
And, for thou shalt not die alone, I took it.
If mankind had been in thee at this murder,
No more to people earth again, the wings
Of old time clipt for ever, reason lost,
In what I had attempted, yet O _Cæsar_
To purchase fair revenge, I had poyson'd them too.

_Emp._ O villain: I grow hotter, hotter.

_Are._ Yes;
But not near my heat yet; what thou feel'st now,
Mark me with horror _Cæsar_, are but Embers
Of lust and leachery thou hast committed:
But there be flames of murder.

_Emp._ Fetch out tortures.

_Are._ Do, and I'le flatter thee, nay more I'll love thee:
Thy tortures to what now I suffer _Cæsar_,
At which thou must arrive too, e're thou dy'st,
Are lighter, and more full of mirth and laughter.

_Emp._ Let 'em alone: I must drink.

_Are._ Now be mad,
But not near me yet.

_Emp._ Hold me, hold me, hold me,
Hold me; or I shall burst else.

_Are._ See me _Cæsar_,
And see to what thou must come for thy murder;
Millions of womens labours, all diseases.

_Emp._ Oh my afflicted soul too.

_Are._ Womens fears, horrors,
Despairs, and all the Plagues the hot Sun breeds.--

_Emp._ _Æcius_, O _Aecius_: O _Lucina_.

_Are._ Are but my torments shadows?

_Emp._ Hide me mountains;
The gods have found my sins:
Now break.

_Are._ Not yet Sir;
Thou hast a pull beyond all these.

_Emp._ Oh Hell,
Oh villain, cursed villain.

_Are._ O brave villain,
My poyson dances in me at this deed:
Now _Cæsar_, now behold me, this is torment,
And this is thine before thou diest, I am wildfire:
The brazen Bull of _Phalaris_ was feign'd,
The miseries of souls despising Heaven
But Emblems of my torments.

_Emp._ Oh quench me, quench me, quench me.

_Are._ Fire, a flattery;
And all the Poets tales of sad _Avernus_,
To my pains less than fictions: Yet to shew thee
What constant love I bore my murdred master;
Like a Southwind, I have sung through all these tempests
My heart, my wither'd heart, fear, fear thou Monster,
Fear the just gods, I have my peace.-- [_He dies._

_Emp._ More drink,
A thousand _April_ showres fall in my bosom:
How dare ye let me be tormented thus?
Away with that prodigious body, gods,
Gods, let me ask ye what I am, ye lay
All your inflictions on me, hear me, hear me;
I do confess I am a ravisher,
A murderer, a hated _Cæsar_; oh,
Are there not vows enough, and flaming altars,
The fat of all the world for sacrifice,
And where that fails, the blood of thousand captives
To purge those sins? but I must make the incense?
I do despise ye all, ye have no mercy,
And wanting that, ye are no Gods, your paroll
Is only preach'd abroad to make Fools fearfull,
And women made of awe, believe your heaven:
Oh torments, torments, torments, pains above pains,
If ye be any thing but dreams, and ghosts,
And truly hold the guidance of things mortal;
Have in your selves times past, to come, and present,
Fashion the souls of men, and make flesh for 'em,
Weighing our fates, and fortunes beyond reason,
Be more than all the Gods, great in forgiveness,
Break not the goodly frame ye build in anger;
For you are things men teach us, without passions,
Give me an hour to know ye in: Oh save me
But so much perfect time ye make a soul in,
Take this destruction from me; no, ye cannot,
The more I would believe ye, more I suffer,
My brains are ashes, now my heart, my eyes friends;
I goe, I goe, more air, more air; I am mortal.-- [_He dyes._

_Pro._ Take in the body: oh _Licinius_,
The misery that we are left to suffer;
No pity shall find us.

_Lici._ Our lives deserve none:
Would I were chain'd again to slavery,
With any hope of life.

_Pro._ A quiet grave,
Or a consumption now _Licinius_,
That we might be too poor to kill, were something.

_Lici._ Let's make our best use, we have mony _Proculus_,
And if that cannot save us, we have swords.

_Pro._ Yes, but we dare not dye.

_Lici._ I had forgot that:
There's other countries then.

_Pro._ But the same hate still,
Of what we are.

_Lici._ Think any thing, I'le follow--

_Enter a_ Messenger.

_Pro._ How now, what news?

_Mess._ Shift for your selves, ye are lost else:
The Souldier is in arms for great _Aecius_,
And their Lieutenant general that stopt 'em,
Cut in a thousand pieces: they march hither:
Beside, the women of the Town have murder'd
_Phorba_, and loose _Ardelia_, _Cæsar_'s she-Bawds.

_Lici._ Then here's no staying _Proculus_?

_Pro._ O _Cæsar_,
That we had never known thy lusts: Let's fly,
And where we find no womans man let's dye.--

SCENE III.

_Enter_ Maximus.

_Max._ Gods, what a sluce of blood have I let open!
My happy ends are come to birth, he's dead,
And I reveng'd; the Empire's all a fire,
And desolation every where inhabits:
And shall I live that am the author of it,
To know _Rome_ from the awe o'th' world, the pity?
My friends are gone before too of my sending,
And shall I stay? is ought else to be liv'd for?
Is there an other friend, another wife,
Or any third holds half their worthiness,
To linger here alive for? Is not vertue
In their two everlasting souls departed,
And in their bodies first flame fled to heaven?
Can any man discover this, and love me?
For though my justice were as white as truth,
My way was crooked to it, that condemns me:
And now _Aecius_, and my honored Lady,
That were preparers to my rest and quiet,
The lines to lead me to _Elyzium_:
You that but stept before me, on assurance
I would not leave your friendship unrewarded,
First smile upon the sacrifice I have sent ye,
Then see me coming boldly: stay, I am foolish,
Somewhat too suddain to mine own destruction,
This great end of my veng[e]ance may grow greater:
Why may not I be _Cæsar_? Yet no dying;
Why should not I catch at it? fools and children
Have had that strength before me, and obtain'd it,
And as the danger stands, my reason bids me,
I will, I dare; my dear friends pardon me,
I am not fit to dye yet, if not _Cæsar_;
I am sure the Souldier loves me, and the people,
And I will forward, and as goodly Cedars
Rent from _Oeta_ by a sweeping tempest
Jointed again and made tall masts, defie
Those angry winds that split 'em, so will I
New piece again, above the fate of women,
And made more perfect far, than growing private,
Stand and defie bad fortunes: If I rise,
My wife was ravish'd well; If then I fall,
My great attempt honours my Funeral.-- [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Enter 3 Senators, and_ Affranius.

_1._ Guard all the posterns to the Camp _Affranius_,
And see 'em fast, we shall be rifled else,
Thou art an honest, and a worthy Captain.

_2._ Promise the Souldier any thing.

_3._ Speak gently,
And tell 'em we are now in council for 'em,
Labouring to choose a _Cæsar_ fit for them,
A Souldier, and a giver.

_1._ Tell 'em further,
Their free and liberal voices shall goe with us.

_2._ Nay more, a negative say we allow 'em.

_3._ And if our choice displease 'em, they shall name him.

_1._ Promise three donatives, and large, _Affranius_.

_2._ And _Cæsar_ once elected, present foes,
With distribution of all necessaries,
Corn, Wine, and Oyle.

_3._ New garments, and new Arms,
And equal portions of the Provinces
To them, and to their families for ever.

_1._ And see the City strengthned.

_Affra._ I shall do it.-- [_Exit_ Affranius.

_2. Sempronius_, these are wofull times.

_3._ O _Brutus_,
We want thy honesty again; these _Cæsars_,
What noble Consuls got with blood, in blood
Consume again, and scatter.

_1._ Which way shall we?

_2._ Not any way of safety I can think on.

_3._ Now go our wives to ruin, and our daughters,
And we beholders _Fulvius_.

_1._ Every thing
Is every mans that will.

_2._ The Vestals now
Must only feed the Souldiers fire of lust,
And sensual Gods be glutted with those Offerings,
Age like the hidden bowels of the earth,
Open'd with swords for treasure.
Gods defend us,
We are chaff before their fury else.

_[3]_ Away,
Let's to the Temples.

_1._ To the Capitol.
'Tis not a time to pray now, let's be strengthen'd--

_Enter_ Affranius.

_3._ How now _Affranius_: what good news?

_Affra._ A _Cæsar_.

_1._ Oh who?

_Affr._ Lord _Maximus_ is with the Souldier,
And all the Camp rings, _Cæsar_, _Cæsar_, _Cæsar_:
He forced the Empress with him for more honour.

_2._ A happy choice: let's meet him.

_3._ Blessed fortune!

_1._ Away, away, make room there, room there, room.

[_Exeunt Senators, Flourish._

_Within._ Lord Maximus is _Cæsar_, _Cæsar_, _Cæsar_;
Hail _Cæsar Maximus_.

_Affra._ Oh turning people!
Oh people excellent in war, and govern'd,
In peace more raging than the furious North,
When he ploughs up the Sea, and makes him brine,
Or the lowd falls of _Nile_; I must give way,
Although I neither love nor hope this:
Or like a rotten bridge that dares a current,
When he is swell'd and high crackt, and farewel.

_Enter_ Maximus, Eudox[i]a, _Senat. and Souldiers_.

_Sen._ Room for the Emperour.

_Soul._ Long life to _Cæsar_.

_Afra._ Hail _Cæsar Maximus_.

_Emp._ _Max._ Your hand _Afranius_.
Lead to the Palace, there my thanks in general,
I'le showre among ye all: gods give me life,
First to defend the Empire, then you Fathers,
And valiant friends, the heirs of strength and vertue,
The rampires of old _Rome_, of us the refuge;
To you I open this day all I have,
Even all the hazard that my youth hath purchas'd,
Ye are my Children, family, and friends
And ever so respected shall be, forward.
There's a Proscription, grave _Sempronius_,
'Gainst all the flatterers, and lazie Bawds
Led loose-liv'd _Valentinian_ to his vices,
See it effected. [_Flourish._

_Sen._ Honour wait on _Cæsar_.

_Sould._ Make room for _Cæsar_ there. [_Exeunt all but_ Afra.

_Afra._ Thou hast my fears,
But _Valentinian_ keeps my vows: Oh gods,
Why do we like to feed the greedy Ravenne
Of these blown men, that must before they stand,
And fixt in eminence, cast life on life,
And trench their safeties in with wounds, and bodies?
Well froward _Rome_, thou wilt grow weak with changing,
And die without an heir, that lov'st to breed
Sons for the killing hate of sons: for me,
I only live to find an enemy. [_Exit._

SCENE V.

_Enter_ Paulus (_a Poet_,) _and_ Licippus (_a Gent_.)

_Pau._ When is the Inauguration?

_Lic._ Why to morrow.

_Paul._ 'Twill be short time.

_Lic._ Any device that's handsome,
A _Cupid_, or the God o'th' place will do it,
Where he must take the _Fasces_.

_Pau._ Or a Grace.

_Lic._ A good Grace has no fellow.

_Pau._ Let me see,
Will not his name yield something? _Maximus_
By th' way of Anagram? I have found out _Axis_,
You know he bears the Empire.

_Lic._ Get him wheels too,
'Twill be a cruel carriage else.

_Pau._ Some songs too.

_Lic._ By any means some songs: but very short ones,
And honest language _Paulus_, without bursting,
The air will fall the sweeter.

_Pau._ A Grace must do it.

_Lic._ Why let a Grace then.

_Pau._ Yes it must be so;
And in a Robe of blew too, as I take it.

_Lic._ This Poet is a little kin to th' Painter
That could paint nothing but a ramping Lion,
So all his learned fancies are blew Graces.

_Pau._ What think ye of a Sea-nymph, and a Heaven?

_Lic._ Why what should she do there man? there's no water.

_Pau._ That's true, it must be a Grace, and yet
Me thinks a Rain bow.

_Lic._ And in blew.

_Pa[u]._ Oh yes;
Hanging in arch above him, and i'th' midle--

_Lic._ A showre of Rain.

_Pau._ No, no, it must be a Grace.

_Lic._ Why prethee Grace him then.

_Pa[u]._ Or _Orpheus_,
Coming from Hell.

_Lic._ In blew too.

_Pau._ 'Tis the better;
And as he rises, full of fires.

_Lic._ Now bless us,
Will not that spoil his Lutestrings, _Paulus_?

_Pau._ Singing,
And crossing of his arms.

_Lic._ How can he play then?

_Pau._ It shall be a Grace, I'le do it.

_Lic._ Prethee do,
And with as good a grace as thou canst possible;
Good fury _Paulus_, be i'th' morning with me,
And pray take measure of his mouth that speaks it. [_Exeunt._

SCENE VI.

_Enter_ Maximus _and_ Eudox[i]a.

_Max._ Come my best lov'd _Eudox[i]a_: let the souldier
Want neither Wine nor any thing he calls for,
And when the Senate's ready, give us notice:
In the mean time leave us.
Oh my dear sweet.

_Eud._ Is't possible your Grace
Should undertake such dangers for my beauty,
If it were excellent?

_Max._ 'Tis all
The world has left to brag of.

_Eud._ Can a face
Long since bequeath'd to wrinkles with my sorrows,
Long since ras'd out o'th' book of youth and pleasure,
Have power to make the strongest man o'th' Empire,
Nay the most staid, and knowing what is Woman;
The greatest aim of perfectness men liv'd by,
The most true constant lover of his wedlock,
Such a still blowing beauty, earth was proud of,
Lose such a noble wife, and wilfully;
Himself prepare the way, nay make the rape.
Did ye not tell me so?

_Max._ 'Tis true _Eudox[i]a_.

_Eud._ Lay desolate his dearest piece of friendship,
Break his strong helm he stear'd by, sink that vertue,
That valour, that even all the gods can give us,
Without whom he was nothing, with whom worthiest,
Nay more, arrive at _Cæsar_, and kill him too,
And for my sake? either ye love too dearly,
Or deeply ye dissemble, Sir?

_Max._ I do so;
And till I am more strengthen'd, so I must do;
Yet would my joy, and Wine had fashion'd out
Some safer lye: Can these things be, _Eudox[i]a_,
And I dissemble? Can there be but goodness
And only thine dear Lady, any end,
Any imagination but a lost one,
Why I should run this hazard? O thou vertue!
Were it to do again, and _Valentinian_
Once more to hold thee, sinful _Valentinian_,
In whom thou wert set, as Pearls are in salt Oysters,
As Roses are in rank weeds, I would find,
Yet to thy sacred self a dearer danger,
The Gods know how I honour thee.

_Eud._ What love, Sir,
Can I return for this, but my obedience?
My life, if so you please, and 'tis too little.

_Max._ 'Tis too much to redeem the world.

_Eud._ From this hour,
The sorrows for my dead Lord, fare ye well,
My living Lord has dried ye; and in token,
As Emperour this day I honour ye,
And the great caster new of all my wishes,
The wreath of living Lawrel, that must compass
That sacred head, _Eudox[i]a_ makes for _Cæsar_:
I am methinks too much in love with fortune;
But with you ever Royal Sir my maker,
The once more Summer of me, meer in love,
Is poor expression of my doting.

_Max._ Sweetest.

_Eud._ Now of my troth ye have bought me dear Sir.

_Max._ No,
Had I at loss of mankind.

_Enter a Messenger._

_Eud._ Now ye flatter.

_Mess._ The Senate waits your Grace.

_Max._ Let 'em come on,
And in a full form bring the ceremony:
This day I am your servant, dear, and proudly,
I'le wear your honoured favour.

_Eud._ May it prove so. [_Exeunt._

SCENE VII.

_Enter_ Paulus _and_ Licippus.

_Lic._ Is your Grace done?

_Pau._ 'Tis done.

_Lic._ Who speaks?

_Pau._ A Boy.

_Lic._ A dainty blue Boy, _Paulus_?

_Pau._ Yes.

_Lic._ Have ye viewed
The work above?

_Pau._ Yes, and all up, and ready.

_Lic._ The Empress does you simple honour, _Paulus_,
The wreath your blue Grace must present, she made.
But hark ye, for the Souldiers?

_Pau._ That's done too:
I'le bring 'em in I warrant ye.

_Lic._ A Grace too?

_Pau._ The same Grace serves for both.

_Lic._ About it then:
I must to th' Cupbord; and be sure good _Paulus_
Your Grace be fasting, that he may hang cleanly.
If there should need another voice, what then?

_Paul._ I'le hang another Grace in.

_Lic._ Grace be with ye. [_Exeunt._

SCENE VIII.

_Enter in state_ Maximus, Eudox[i]a, _with Souldiers and
Gentlemen of_ Rome, _the Senators, and Rods and
Axes born before them_.

_A Synnet with_} {_With a Banket prepared, with_
_Trumpets._ } {_Hoboies, Musick, Song, wreath._

_3 Sen._ Hale to thy imperial honour sacred _Cæsar_,
And from the old _Rome_ take these wishes;
You holy gods, that hitherto have held
As justice holds her Ballance equal pois'd,
This glory of our Nation, this full _Roman_,
And made him fit for what he is, confirm him:
Look on this Son O _Jupiter_ our helper,
And _Romulus_, thou Father of our honour,
Preserve him like thy self, just, valiant, noble,
A lover, and increaser of his people,
Let him begin with _Numa_, stand with _Cato_,
The first five years of _Nero_ be his wishes,
Give him the age and fortune of _Emylius_,
And his whole raign renew a great _Augustus_.

SONG.

_Honour that is ever living,_
_Honour that is ever giving,_
_Honour that sees all and knows_
_Both the ebbs of man and flowes,_
_Honour that rewards the best,_
_Sends thee thy rich labours rest;_
_Thou hast studied still to please her,_
_Therefore now she calls thee_ Cæsar:

Chor. _Hale, hale_, Cæsar, _hale and stand,_
_And thy name outlive the Land._
_Noble Fathers to his brows_
_Bind this wreath with thousand vows._

_All._ Stand to Eternity.

_Max._ I thank ye Fathers,
And as I rule, may it still grow or wither:
Now to the Banket, ye are all my guests,
This day be liberal friends, to wine we give it;
And smiling pleasures: Sit, my Queen of Beauty;
Fathers, your places: these are fair Wars Souldiers,
And thus I give the first charge to ye all;
You are my second, sweet, to every cup,
I add unto the Senate a new honour,
And to the sons of _Mars_ a donative.

SONG.

_God_ Lyeus _ever young,_
_Ever honour'd, ever sung;_
_Stain'd with bloud of lusty Grapes,_
_In a thousand lusty shapes;_
_Dance upon the Mazers brim,_
_In the Crimson liquor swim:_
_From thy plenteous hand divine,_
_Let a River run with Wine:_
_God of youth, let this day here_
_Enter neither care nor fear._

_Boy._ _Bellona's_ seed, the glory of old _Rome_,
Envy of conquer'd Nations, nobly come
And to the fulness of your war-like noise
Let your feet move, make up this hour of joys;
Come, come I say, range your fair Troop at large,
And your high measure turn into a charge.

_Semp._ The Emperor's grown heavy with his wine.

_Afra._ The Senate staies Sir for your thanks.

_Semp._ Great _Cæsar_.

_Eud._ I have my wish.

_Afra._ Wilt please your Grace speak to him?

_Eud._ Yes, but he will not hear Lords.

_Semp._ Stir him _Lucius_; the Senate must have thanks.

_2 Sen. Luc._ Your Grace, Sir _Cæsar_.

_Eud._ Did I not tell you he was well? he's dead.

_Semp._ Dead? treason, guard the Court, let no man pass,
Souldiers, your _Cæsar_'s murdered.

_Eud._ Make no tumult,
Nor arm the Court, ye have his killer with ye;
And the just cause, if ye can stay the hearing:
I was his death; that wreath that made him _Cæsar_,
Has made him earth.

_Sould._ Cut her in thousand pieces.

_Eud._ Wise men would know the reason first: to die,
Is that I wish for, _Romans_, and your swords,
The heaviest way of death: yet Souldiers grant me
That was your Empress once, and honour'd by ye,
But so much time to tell ye why I kill'd him,
And weigh my reasons well, if man be in you;
Then if ye dare do cruelly, condemn me.

_Afr._ Hear her ye noble _Romans_, 'tis a Woman,
A subject not for swords, but pity: Heaven
(If she be guilty of malitious murder)
Has given us Laws to make example of her,
If only of revenge, and bloud hid from us,
Let us consider first, then execute.

_Semp._ Speak bloudy Woman.

_Eud._ Yes; This _Maximus_,
That was your _Cæsar_, Lords, and noble Souldiers,
(And if I wrong the dead, Heaven perish me;
Or speak to win your favours but the truth)
Was to his Country, to his friends, and _Cæsar_
A most malitious Traitor.

_Semp._ Take heed woman.

_Eud._ I speak not for compassion. Brave _Æcius_
(Whose blessed soul if I lye shall afflict me)
The man that all the world lov'd, you ador'd,
That was the master-piece of Arms, and bounty;
Mine own grief shall come last: this friend of his,
This Souldier, this your right Arm, noble _Romans_,
By a base letter to the Emperor;
Stufft full of fears, and poor suggestions,
And by himself, unto himself directed;
Was cut off basely, basely, cruelly;
Oh loss, O innocent, can ye now kill me?
And the poor stale my Noble Lord, that knew not
More of this villain, than his forc'd fears;
Like one foreseen to satisfie, dy'd for it:
There was a murder too, _Rome_ would have blusht at;
Was this worth being _Cæsar_? or my patience? nay his Wife
By Heaven he told it me in wine, and joy;
And swore it deeply, he himself prepar'd
To be abus'd, how? let me grieve not tell ye;
And weep the sins that did it: and his end
Was only me, and _Cæsar_: But me he lyed in:
These are my reasons _Romans_, and my soul
Tells me sufficient; and my deed is justice:
Now as I have done well, or ill, look on me.

_Afra._ What less could nature do, what less had we done,
Had we known this before? _Romans_, she is righteous;
And such a piece of justice Heaven must smile on:
Bend all your swords on me, if this displease ye.
For I must kneel, and on this vertuous hand;
Seal my new joy and thanks, thou hast done truly.

_Semp._ Up with your arms, ye strike a Saint else _Romans_,
May'st thou live ever spoken our Protector:
_Rome_ yet has many Noble Heirs: Let's in
And pray, before we choose, then plant a _Cæsar_
Above the reach of envy, blood, and murder.

_Afra._ Take up the body nobly to his urn,
And may our sins, and his together burn. [_Exeunt. A dead March._