_Seneca_. Heaven, hast thou set this end to Roman greatnesse? Were the worlds spoyles for this to Rome devided To make but our fires bigger? You Gods, whose anger made us great, grant yet Some change in misery. We begge not now To have our Consull tread on _Asian_ Kings Or spurne the quivered _Susa_ at their feet; This we have had before: we beg to live, At least not thus to die. Let _Cannae_[52] come, Let _Allias_[53] waters turne again to blood: To these will any miseries be light. _Petron_. Why with false _Auguries_ have we bin deceiv'd? Why was our Empire told us should endure With Sunne and Moone in time, in brightnesse pass them, And that our end should be oth' world and it? What, can Celestiall Godheads double too? _Seneca_. _O Rome_, the envy late But now the pitie of the world! the _Getes_[54]? The men of _Cholcos_ at thy sufferings grive; The shaggy dweller in the _Scithian_ Rockes, The _Mosch_[55] condemned to perpetual snowes, That never wept at kindreds burials Suffers with thee and feeles his heart to soften. O should the _Parthyan_ heare these miseries He would (his low and native hate apart[56]) Sit downe with us and lend an Enemies teare To grace the funerall fires of ending Rome. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 4.) _Soft Musique. Enter Nero above alone with a Timbrell_. I, now my _Troy_ lookes beautious in her flames; The _Tyrrhene_ Seas are bright with _Roman_ fires Whilst the amazed Mariner afarre, Gazing on th'unknowne light, wonders what starre Heaven hath begot to ease the aged Moone. When _Pirrhus_, stryding ore the cynders, stood On ground where _Troy_ late was, and with his Eye Measur'd the height of what he had throwne downe,-- A Citie great in people and in power, Walls built with hands of God--he now forgive[s] The ten yeares length and thinkes his wounds well heald, Bath'd in the blood of _Priams_ fifty sonnes. Yet am not I appeas'd; I must see more Then Towers and Collomns tumble to the ground; 'Twas not the high built walls and guiltlesse stones That _Nero_ did provoke: themselves must be the wood To feed this fire or quench it with their blood. _Enter a Woman with a burnt Child_. _Wom_. O my deare Infant, O my Child, my Child, Unhappy comfort of my nine moneths paines; And did I beare thee only for the fire, Was I to that end made a mother? _Nero_. I, now begins the sceane that I would have. _Enter a Man bearing another dead_. _Man_. O Father, speake yet; no, the mercilesse blowe Hath all bereft speech, motion, sense and life. _Wom_. O beauteous innocence, whitenes ill blackt, How to be made a coale didst thou deserve? _Man_. O reverend wrinckles, well becoming palenesse, Why hath death now lifes colours given thee And mockes thee with the beauties of fresh youth? _Wom_. Why wert thou given me to be tane away So soone, or could not Heaven tell how to punish But first by blessing mee?