See how Fate workes unto their purpos'd end And without all selfe-Industry will raise Whom they determine to make great and happy. _Nero_ throwes down himselfe, I stirre him not; He runnes unto destruction, studies wayes To compasse danger and attaine the hate Of all. Bee his owne wishis on his head, Nor _Rome_ with fire more then revenges burne. Let me stand still or lye or sleepe, I rise. _Poppea_ some new favour will seeke out My wakings to salute; I cannot stirre But messages of new preferment meet me. Now she hath made me Captaine of the Guard So well I beare me in these night Alarmes That she imagin'd I was made for Armes. I now command the Souldier,[58] he the Citie: If any chance doe turne the Prince aside (As many hatreds, mischiefes threaten him) Ours is his wife; his seat and throwne is ours: He's next in right that hath the strongest powers. [_Exit_. (SCENE 6.) _Enter Scevinus, Milichus_. _Scevin_. O _Troy_ and O yee soules of our forefathers Which in your countreys fires were offered up, How neere your Nephews[59] to your fortunes come. Yet they were _Grecian_ hands began your flame; But that our Temples and our houses smoake, Our Marble buildings turne to be our Tombes, Burnt bones and spurnt at Courses fill the streets, Not _Pirrhus_ nor thou, _Hanniball_, art Author: Sad _Rome_ is ruin'd by a _Romane_ hand. But if to _Neroes_ end this onely way Heavens Justice hath chose out, and peoples love Could not but by these feebling ills be mov'd, We doe not then at all complaine; our harmes On this condition please us; let us die And cloy the _Parthian_ with revenge and pitie. _Mili_. My Master hath seald up his Testament; Those bond-men which he liketh best set free; Given money, and more liberally then he us'd. And now, as if a farewell to the world Were meant, a sumpteous banquet hath he made; Yet not with countenance that feasters use, But cheeres his friends the whilest himselfe lookes sad. _Scevin_. I have from Fortunes Temple[60] tane this sword; May it be fortunate and now at least, Since it could not prevent, punish the Evill. To _Rome_ it had bin better done before, But though lesse helping now they'le praise it more. Great Soveraigne of all mortall actions. Whom only wretched men and Poets blame, Speed thou the weapon which I have from thee. 'Twas not amid thy Temple Monuments In vaine repos'd; somewhat I know't hath done: O with new honours let it be laid up. Strike bouldly, arme; so many powerful prayers Of dead and living hover over thee. _Mili_. And though sometimes with talk impertinent And idle fances he would fame a mirth, Yet is it easie seene somewhat is heere The which he dares not let his face make shew of. _Scevin_. Long want of use[61] hath made it dull and blunt.-- See, _Milichus_, this weapon better edg'd.