_Empe._ One that can pray away the sins she suffers, But not the punishments: she has had ten Bastards, Five of 'em now are Lictors, yet she prayes; She has been the Song of _Rome_, and common _Pasquil_; Since I durst see a Wench, she was Camp Mistris, And muster'd all the cohorts, paid 'em too, They have it yet to shew, and yet she prayes; She is now to enter old men that are Children, And have forgot their rudiments: am I Left for these withered vices? and but one, But one of all the world that could content me, And snatch'd away in shewing? If your Wives Be not yet Witches, or your selves now be so And save your lives, raise me this noble beauty As when I forc'd her, full of constancy, Or by the Gods-- _Lid._ Most sacred _Cæsar_. _Empe._ Slaves. _Enter_ Proculus. _Lici._ Good _Proculus_. _Pro._ You shall not see it, It may concern the Empire. _Emp._ Ha: what said'st thou? Is she not dead? _Pro._ Not any one I know, Sir; I come to bring your Grace a Letter, here Scatter'd belike i'th' Court: 'tis sent to _Maximus_ And bearing danger in it. _Emp._ Danger? where? Double our Guard. _Pro._ Nay no where, but i'th' Letter. _Emp._ What an afflicted Conscience do I live with, And what a beast I am grown! I had forgotten To ask Heaven mercy for my fault, and was now Even ravishing again her memory, I find there must be danger in this deed: Why do I stand disputing then and whining? For what is not the gods to give, they cannot Though they would link their powers in one, do mischief. This Letter may betray me, get ye gone [_Exeunt._ And wait me in the Garden, guard the house well, And keep this from the Empress: the name _Maximus_ Runs through me like a feavour, this may be Some private Letter upon private business, Nothing concerning me: why should I open't? I have done him wrong enough already; yet It may concern me too, the time so tells me; The wicked deed I have done, assures me 'tis so. Be what it will, I'le see it, if that be not Part of my fears, among my other sins, I'le purge it out in prayers: How? what's this? _Letter read_] Lord _Maximus_, you love _Æcius_, And are his noble friend too; bid him be less, I mean less with the people, times are dangerou[s]: The Army's his, the Emperour in doubts; And as some will not stick to say, declining, You stand a constant man in either fortune; Perswade him, he is lost else: Though ambition Be the last sin he touches at, or never; Yet what the people mad with loving him, And as they willingly desire another May tempt him to, or rather force his goodness, Is to be doubted mainly: he is all, (As he stands now) but the meer name of _Cæsar_, And should the Emperour inforce him lesser,