_Cæ._ Murthers must vse, who doth assurance seeke. _Ag._ Assurance call you enemies to make? _Cæs._ I make no such, but such away I take. _Ag._ Nothing so much as rigour doth displease. _Cæs._ Nothing so much doth make me liue at ease. _Ag._ What ease to him that feared is of all? _Cæ._ Feared to be, and see his foes to fall. _Ag._ Commonly feare doth brede and nourish hate. _Cæ._ Hate without pow’r comes comonly too late. _Ag._ A feared Prince hath oft his death desir’d. _Cæ._ A Prince not fear’d hath oft his wrong conspir’de. _Ag._ No guard so sure, no forte so strong doth proue, No such defence, as is the peoples loue. _Cæs._ Nought more vnsure more weak, more like the winde, Then _Peoples_ fauor still to chaunge enclinde. _Ag._ Good Gods! what loue to gracious Prince men beare! _Cæs._ What honor to the Prince that is seuere! _Ag._ Nought more diuine then is _Benignitie_. _Cæ._ Nought likes the _Gods_ as doth _Seueritie_. _Ag._ _Gods_ all forgiue. _Cæ._ On faults they paines do laie. _Ag._ And giue their goods. _Cæ._ Oft times they take away. _Ag._ They wreake them not, ô _Cæsar_, at each time That by our sinnes they are to wrathe prouok’d. Neither must you (beleue, I humblie praie) Your victorie with crueltie defile. The Gods it gaue, it must not be abus’d, But to the good of all men mildlie vs’d, And they be thank’d: that hauing giu’n you grace To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie masse, They may hence-forward hold it still in rest, All scattred power vnited in one brest. _Cæ._ But what is he, that breathles comes so fast, Approaching vs, and going in such hast? _Ag._ He semes affraid: and vnder his arme I (But much I erre) a bloudie sworde espie. _Cæs._ I long to vnderstand what it may be. _Ag._ He hither comes: it’s best we stay and see. _Dirce._ What good God now my voice will reenforce, That tell I may to rocks, and hilles, and woods, To waues of sea, which dash vpon the shore, To earth, to heau’n, the woefull newes I bring? _Ag._ What sodaine chaunce thee towards vs hath brought? _Dir._ A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau’ns! O Gods too pittiles! _Cæs._ What monstrous happ Wilt thou recount? _Dir._ Alas too hard mishapp! When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld, My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering quake, I senceles stand, my brest with tempest tost Killes in my throte my wordes, ere fully borne. Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say, This murthering sword hath made the man away. _Cæs._ Alas my heart doth cleaue, pittie me rackes, My breast doth pant to heare this dolefull tale. Is _Antonie_ then dead? To death, alas! I am the cause despaire him so compelld. But souldiour of his death the maner showe, And how he did this liuing light forgoe.