_Max._ And kept ye still in credit. _Phi._ 'Tis most true Sir. _Max._ He fed your Fathers too, and made them means, Your Sisters he prefer'd to noble Wedlocks, Did he not friends? _Are._ Oh yes Sir. _Max._ As I take it This worthy man would not be now forgotten, I tell ye to my grief, he was basely murdred; And something would be done, by those that lov'd him: And something may be: pray stand off a little, Let me bewail him private: O my dearest. _Phi._ _Aretus_, if we be not sudden, he outdoes us, I know he points at ven[ge]ance; we are cold, And base ungratefull wretches, if we shun it: Are we to hope for more rewards, or greatness, Or any thing but death, now he is dead? Dar'st thou resolve? _Are._ I am perfect. _Phi._ Then like flowers That grew together all we'l fall together, And with us that that bore us: when 'tis done The world shall stile us two deserving servants: I fear he will be before us. _Are._ This night _Phidias_. _Phi._ No more. _Max._ Now worthy friends I have done my mournings, Let's burn this noble body: Sweets as many As sun-burnt _Meroe_ breeds, I'le make a flame of, Shall reach his soul in Heaven: he that shall live Ten ages hence, but to reherse this story, Shall with the sad discourse on't, darken Heaven, And force the painful burdens from the wombs Conceiv'd a new with sorrow: even the Grave Where mighty _Sylla_ sleeps shall rend asunder And give her shadow up, to come and groan About our piles, which will be more, and greater Than green _Olympus_, _Ida_, or old _Latmus_ Can feed with Cedar, or the East with Gums, _Greece_ with her wines, or _Thessalie_ with flowers, Or willing heaven can weep for in her showres. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quintus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Phidias, _with his dagger in him, and_ Aretus, _poyson'd_. _Are._ He has his last. _Phi._ Then come the worst of danger, _Æcius_ to thy soul we give a _Cæsar_. How long is't since ye gave it him? _Are._ An hour, Mine own two hours before him: how it boils me! _Phi._ It was not to be cur'd I hope. _Are._ No _Phidias_, I dealt above his Antidotes: Physicians May find the cause, but where the cure? _Phi._ Done bravely, We are got before his Tyranny _Aretus_. _Are._ We had lost our worthiest end else _Phidias_. _Phi._ Canst thou hold out a while? _Are._ To torture him Anger would give me leave, to live an age yet; That man is poorly spirited, whose life Runs in his bloud alone, and not in's wishes, And yet I swell, and burn like flaming _Ætna_, A thousand new found fires are kindled in me, But yet I must not die this four hours _Phidias_. _Phi._ Remember who dies with thee, and despise death.