_Nero_. They tell of _Orpheus_, when he tooke his Lute And moov'd the noble Ivory with his touch, _Hebrus_ stood still, _Pangea_ bow'd his head, _Ossa_ then first shooke off his snowe and came To listen to the moovings of his song; The gentle _Popler_ tooke the baye along, And call'd the _Pyne_ downe from his Mountaine seate; The _Virgine Bay_, although the Arts she hates Oth' _Delphick_ God, was with his voice orecome; He his twice-lost _Euridice_ bewailes And _Proserpines_ vaine gifts, and makes the shores And hollow caves of forrests now untreed Beare his griefe company, and all things teacheth His lost loves name; Then water, ayre, and ground _Euridice, Euridice_ resound. These are bould tales, of which the Greeks have store; But if he could from Hell once more returne And would compare his hand and voice with mine, I, though himselfe were iudge, he then should see How much the _Latine_ staines the _Thracian_ lyar. I oft have walkt by _Tibers_ flowing bankes And heard the Swan sing her own epitaph: When she heard me she held her peace and died. Let others raise from earthly things their praise; Heaven hath stood still to hear my happy ayres And ceast th'eternall Musicke of the _Spheares_ To marke my voyce and mend their tunes by mine. _Neoph_. O divine voice! _Epaphr_. Happy are they that heare it! _Enter Tigellinus to them_. _Nero_. But here comes _Tigellinus_; come, thy bill. Are there so many? I see I have enemies. _Epaphr_. Have you put _Caius_ in? I saw him frowne. _Neoph_. And in the midst oth' Emperors action. _Gallus_ laught out, and as I thinke in scorne. _Nero_. _Vespasian_[41] too asleepe? was he so drowsie? Well, he shall sleepe the Iron sleepe of death. And did _Thrasea_ looke so sourely on us? _Tigell_. He never smilde, my Lord, nor would vouchsafe With one applause to grace your action. _Nero_. Our action needed not be grac'd by him: Hee's our old enemie and still maligns us. 'Twill have an end, nay it shall have an end. Why, I have bin too pittifull, too remisse; My easinesse is laught at and contemn'd. But I will change it; not as heretofore By singling out them one by one to death: Each common man can such revenges have; A Princes anger must lay desolate Citties, Kingdomes consume, Roote up mankind. O could I live to see the generall end, Behold the world enwrapt in funerall flame, When as the _Sunne_ shall lend his beames to burne What he before brought forth, and water serve Not to extinguish but to nurse the fire; Then, like the _Salamander_, bathing me In the last Ashes of all mortall things Let me give up this breath. _Priam_ was happie, Happie indeed; he saw his _Troy_ burnt And _Illion_ lye on heapes, whilst thy pure streames (Divine _Scamander_) did run _Phrygian_ blood, And heard the pleasant cries of _Troian_ mothers. Could I see _Rome_ so! _Tigell_. Your Maiestie may easily, Without this trouble to your sacred mind.