_Man_. Why where thy years Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely? _Nero_. Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cryes and pitie, with your blood; Mens Eyes[57]-- _Wom_. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses, And armes that wont to writhe about my necke? _Man_. Where are thy counsels? where thy good example, And that kind roughnes of a Father's anger? _Wom_. Whom have I now to leane my old age on? _Man_. Who shall I now have to set right my youth? Gods, if yee be not fled from Heaven, helpe us. _Nero_. I like this Musique well; they like not mine. Now in the teare[s] of all men let me sing, And make it doubtfull to the Gods above Whether the Earth be pleas'd or doe complaine. (_Within, cantat_.) _Man_. But may the man that all this blood hath shed Never bequeath to th'earth an old gray head; Let him untimely be cut off before. And leave a course like this, all wounds and gore; Be there no friends at hand, no standers by In love or pittie mov'd to close that Eye: O let him die, the wish and hate of all, And not a teare to grace his Funerall. [_Exeunt_. _Wom_. Heaven, you will heare (that which the world doth scorn) The prayers of misery and soules forlorne. Your anger waxeth by delaying stronger, O now for mercy be despis'd no longer; Let him that makes so many Mothers childlesse Make his unhappy in her fruitfulnesse. Let him no issue leave to beare his name Or sonne to right a Fathers wronged fame; Our flames to quit be righteous in your yre, And when he dies let him want funerall fire. [_Exeunt_. _Nero_. Let Heaven do what it will, this I have done. Already doe you feel my furies waight: Rome is become a grave of her late greatnes; Her clowdes of smoke have tane away the day, Her flames the night. Now, unbeleaving Eyes, what crave you more? _Enter Neophilus to him_. _Neoph_. O save your selfe, my Lord: your Pallace burnes. _Nero_. My Pallace? how? what traiterous hand? _Enter Tigellinus to them_. _Tigell_. O flie, my Lord, and save your selfe betimes. The winde doth beate the fire upon your house, The eating flame devoures your double gates; Your pillars fall, your golden roofes doe melt; Your antique Tables and Greeke Imagery The fire besets; and the smoake, you see, Doth choake my speech: O flie and save your life. _Nero_. Heaven thou dost strive, I see, for victory. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 5.) _Enter Nimphidius solus_.