_Empe._ She cannot dye, she must not dye; are those I plant my love upon but common livers? Their hours as others, told 'em? can they be ashes? Why do ye flatter a belief into me That I am all that is, the world's my creature, The Trees bring forth their fruits when I say Summer, The Wind that knows no limit but his wildness, At my command moves not a leaf; the Sea With his proud mountain waters envying Heaven, When I say still, run into Crystal mirrors, Can I do this and she dye? Why ye bubbles That with my least breath break, no more remembred; Ye moths that fly about my flame and perish, Ye golden canker-worms, that eat my honours, Living no longer than my spring of favour: Why do ye make me God that can do nothing? Is she not dead? _Chil._ All Women are not with her. _Empe._ A common Whore serves you, and far above ye, The pleasures of a body lam'd with lewdness; A meer perpetual motion makes ye happy; Am I a man to traffick with Diseases? Can any but a chastity serve _Cæsar_? And such a one that Gods would kneel to purchase? You think because you have bred me up to pleasures, And almost run me over all the rare ones, Your Wives will serve the turn: I care not for 'em, Your Wives are Fencers Whores, and shall be Footmens, Though sometimes my nice will, or rather anger Have made ye Cuckolds for variety; I would not have ye hope, nor dream ye poor ones Alwaies so great a blessing from me; go Get your own infamy hereafter Rascals, I have done too nobly for ye, ye enjoy Each one an heir, the Royal seed of _Cæsar_, And I may curse ye for't; your wanton Gennets That are so proud, the wind get's 'em with fillies, Taught me this foul intemperance: Thou _Licinius_ Hast such a _Messalina_, such a _Lais_, The backs of Bulls cannot content, nor Stallions, The sweat of fifty men a night do's nothing. _Lici._ Your Grace but jests I hope. _Empe._ 'Tis Oracle. The sins of other Women put by hers Shew off like sanctities: Thine's a fool, _Chilax_, Yet she can tell to twenty, and all lovers, And all lien with her too, and all as she is, Rotten, and ready for an Hospital. Yours is an holy Whore, friend _Balbus_. _Bal._ Well Sir.