_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.