1 _Friend_. Weele not belie our teares; we waile not thee, It is our selves and our owne losse we grieve: To thee what losse in such a change can bee? Vertue is paid her due by death alone. To our owne losses do we give these teares, That loose thy love, thy boundlesse knowledge loose, Loose the unpatternd sample of thy vertue, Loose whatsoev'r may praise or sorrow move. In all these losses yet of this we glory, That 'tis thy happinesse that makes us sorry. 2 _Friend_. If there be any place for Ghosts of good men, If (as we have bin long taught) great mens soules Consume not with their bodies, thou shalt see (Looking from out the dwellings of the ayre) True duties to thy memorie perform'd; Not in the outward pompe of funerall, But in remembrance of thy deeds and words, The oft recalling of thy many vertues. The Tombe that shall th'eternall relickes keepe Of _Seneca_ shall be his hearers hearts. _Seneca_. Be not afraid, my soule; goe cheerefully To thy owne Heaven, from whence it first let downe. Thou loathly[82] this imprisoning flesh putst on; Now, lifted up, thou ravisht shalt behold The truth of things at which we wonder here, And foolishly doe wrangle on beneath; And like a God shalt walk the spacious ayre, And see what even to conceit's deni'd. Great soule oth' world, that through the parts defus'd Of this vast All, guid'st what thou dost informe; You blessed mindes that from the _[S]pheares_ you move, Looke on mens actions not with idle eyes, And Gods we goe to, aid me in this strife And combat of my flesh that, ending, I May still shew _Seneca_ and my selfe die. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 7.) _Enter Antonius, Enanthe_. _Anton_. Sure this message of the Princes, So grievous and unlookt for, will appall _Petronius_ much. _Enan_. Will not death any man? _Anton_. It will; but him so much the more That, having liv'd to his pleasure, shall forgoe So delicate a life. I doe not marvell[83] That _Seneca_ and such sowre fellowes can Leave that they never tasted, but when we That have the _Nectar_ of thy kisses felt, That drinkes away the troubles of this life, And but one banquet make[s] of forty yeeres, Must come to leave this;--but, soft, here he is. _Enter Petronius and a Centurion_. _Petron_. Leave me a while, _Centurion_, to my friends; Let me my farewell take, and thou shalt see _Neroes_ commandement quickly obaid in mee. [_Ex. Centur_. --Come, let us drinke and dash the posts with wine! Here throw your flowers; fill me a swelling bowle Such as _Mecenas_ or my _Lucan_ dranke On _Virgills_ birth day.[84] _Enan_. What meanes, _Petronius_, this unseasonable And causelesse mirth? Why, comes not from the Prince This man to you a messenger of death?