_Scevin_. And,[69] at adventure, what by stoutnesse can Befall us worse than will by cowardise? If both the people and the souldier failde us Yet shall we die at least worthy our selves, Worthy our ancestors. O _Piso_ thinke, Thinke on that day when in the _Parthian_ fields Thou cryedst to th'flying Legions to turne And looke Death in the face; he was not grim But faire and lovely when he came in armes. O why there di'd we not on _Syrian_ swords? Were we reserv'd to prisons and to chaines? Behold the Galley-asses in every street; And even now they come to clap on yrons. Must _Pisoes_ head be shewed upon a pole? Those members torne, rather then _Roman_-like And _Piso_-like with weapons in our hands Fighting in throng of enemies to die? And that it shall not be a civill warre _Nero_ prevents, whose cruelty hath left Few Citizens; we are not Romans now But Moores, and Jewes, and utmost Spaniards, And _Asiaes_ refuse[70] that doe fill the Citie. _Piso_. Part of us are already tak'n; the rest Amaz'd and seeking holes. Our hidden ends You see laid open; Court and Citie arm'd And for feare ioyning to the part they feare. Why should we move desperate and hopelesse armes And vainely spill that noble bloud that should Christall _Rubes_[71] and the _Median_ fields, Not _Tiber_ colour? And the more your show be, Your loves and readinesse to loose your lives, The lother I am to adventure them. Yet am I proud you would for me have dy'd; But live, and keepe your selves to worthier ends. No Mother but my owne shall weepe my death Nor will I make, by overthrowing us, Heaven guiltie of more faults yet; from the hopes Your owne good wishes rather then the thing Doe make you see, this comfort I receive Of death unforst. O friends I would not die When I can live no longer; 'tis my glory That free and willing I give up this breath, Leaving such courages as yours untri'd. But to be long in talk of dying would Shew a relenting and a doubtfull mind: By this you shall my quiet thoughts intend; I blame not Earth nor Heaven for my end.[72] (_He dies_.) _Lucan_. O that this noble courage had bin shewne Rather on enemies breasts then on thy owne. _Scevin_. But sacred and inviolate be thy will, And let it lead and teach us. This sword I could more willingly have thrust Through _Neroes_ breast; that fortune deni'd me, It now shall through _Scevinus_. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 3.) _Enter Tigellinus solus_.