_Pon._ Is he so mad? _Pro._ He's madder! Would goe to'th' Army to him. _Pon._ Would he so? _Pro._ Yes _Pontius_; but we consider-- _Pon._ Wisely. _Pro._ How else man, that the state lies in it. _Pon._ And your lives too. _Pro._ And every mans. _Pon._ He did me All the disgrace he could. _Pro._ And scurvily. _Pon._ Out of a mischief meerly: did you mark it? _Pro._ Yes well enough. Now ye have means to quit it, The deed done, take his place. _Pon._ Pray let me think on't, 'Tis ten to one I do it. _Pro._ Do and be happy.-- [_Exit_ Pro. _Pon._ This Emperour is made of nought but mischief, Sure, Murther was his Mother: none to lop, But the main link he had? upon my conscience The man is truly honest, and that kills him; For to live here, and study to be true, Is all one to be Traitors: why should he die? Have they not Slaves and Rascals for their Offrings In full abundance; Bawds more than beasts for slaughter? Have they not singing whores enough, and knaves too, And millions of such Martyrs to sink _Charon_, But the best sons of _Rome_ must sail too? I will shew him (since he must dye) a way to do it truly: And though he bears me hard, yet shall he know, I am born to make him bless me for a blow.-- [_Exit._ SCENE [IV]. _Enter_ Phidias, Aretus, _and_ Æcius. _Phi._ Yet ye may 'scape to th' Camp, we'l hazard with ye. _Aret._ Lose not your life so basely Sir: ye are arm'd, And many when they see your sword out, and know why, Must follow your adventure. _Aeci._ Get ye from me: Is not the doom of _Cæsar_ on this body, Do not I bear my last hour here, now sent me? Am I not old _Aecius_, ever dying? You think this tenderness and love you bring me, 'Tis treason, and the strength of disobedience, And if ye tempt me further, ye shall feel it: I seek the Camp for safety, when my death Ten times more glorious than my life, and lasting Bids me be happy? Let the fool fear dying, Or he that weds a woman for his honour, Dreaming no other life to come but kisses; _Aecius_ is not now to learn to suffer: If ye dare shew a just affection, kill me, I stay but those that must: why do ye weep? Am I so wretched to deserve mens pities? Goe give your tears to those that lose their worths, Bewail their miseries, for me wear Garlands, Drink wine, and much; sing _Peans_ to my praise, I am to triumph friends, and more than _Cæsar_, For _Cæsar_ fears to die, I love to die. _Phi._ O my dear Lord!