_Scevin_. His long continued taxes I forbeare, In which he chiefely showed him to be Prince; His robbing Alters,[75] sale of Holy things, The Antique Goblets of adored rust And sacred gifts of kings and people sold. Nor was the spoile more odious than the use They were imployd on; spent on shame and lust, Which still have bin so endless in their change And made us know a divers servitude. But that he hath bin suffered so long And prospered, as you say; for that to thee, O Heaven, I turne my selfe and cry, "No God Hath care of us." Yet have we our revenge, As much as Earth may be reveng'd on Heaven: Their divine honour _Nero_ shall usurpe, And prayers and feasts and adoration have As well as _Iupiter_. _Nimph_. Away, blaspheming tongue, Be ever silent for thy bitternesse. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 5.) _Enter Nero, Poppaea, Tigellinus, Flavius, Neophilus, Epaphroditus, and a yong man_. _Nero_. What could cause thee, Forgetfull of my benefits and thy oath, To seeke my life? _Flav_. _Nero_, I hated thee: Nor was there any of thy souldiers More faithful, while thou faith deserv'dst, then I. Together did I leave to be a subject, And thou a Prince. Caesar was now become A Player on the Stage, a Waggoner, A burner of our houses and of us, A Paracide of Wife and Mother.[76] _Tigell_. Villaine, dost know where and of whom thou speakst? _Nero_. Have you but one death for him? Let it bee A feeling one; _Tigellinus_, bee't[77] Thy charge, and let me see thee witty in't. _Tigell_. Come, sirrah; Weele see how stoutly you'le stretch out your necke. _Flav_. Wold thou durst strike as stoutly. [_Exit Tigell. and Flav_. _Nero_. And what's hee there? _Epaphr_. One that in whispering oreheard[78] What pitie 'twas, my Lord, that _Pisoe_ died. _Nero_. And why was't pitie, sirrah, _Pisoe_ died? _Yong_. My Lord, 'twas pitie he deserv'd to die. _Poppaea_. How much this youth my _Otho_ doth resemble; (_aside_.) _Otho_ my first, my best love who is now (Under pretext of governing) exyl'd To _Lucitania_, honourably banish't. _Nero_. Well, if you be so passionate, Ile make you spend your pitie on your Prince And good men, not on traytors. _Yong_. The Gods forbid my Prince should pitie need. Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirre Oth' fraile and weake condition of our kind, Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterday The world but _Caesar_ could shew nothing higher. Besides, some vertues and some worth he had, That might excuse my pitie to an end So cruell and unripe. _Poppaea_. I know not how this stranger moves my mind. (_Aside_.) His face me thinkes is not like other mens, Nor do they speake thus. Oh, his words invade My weakned senses and overcome my heart.