_Are._ I need no exhortation, the joy in me Of what I have done, and why, makes poyson pleasure, And my most killing torments mistresses. For how can he have time to dye, or pleasure That falls as fools unsatisfied, and simple? _Phi._ This that consumes my life, yet keeps it in me, Nor do I feel the danger of a dying, And if I but endure to hear the curses Of this fell Tyrant dead, I have half my Heaven. _Are._ Hold thy soul fast but four hours _Phidias_, And thou shalt see to wishes beyond ours, Nay more beyond our meanings. _Phi._ Thou hast steel'd me: Farewel _Aretus_, and the souls of good men, That as ours do, have left their _Roman_ bodies In brave revenge for vertue, guide our shadows, I would not faint yet. _Are._ Farewel _Phidias_ And as we have done nobly, gods look on us.-- [_Exeunt severally._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Lycias, _and_ Proculus. _Lyci._ Sicker, and sicker _Proculus_? _Pro._ Oh _Lycias_, What shall become of us? would we had di'd With happy _Chilax_, or with _Balbus_, bedrid-- _Enter_ Licinius. And made too lame for justice. _Licinius._ The soft Musick; And let one sing to fasten sleep upon him: Oh friends, the Emperour. _Pro._ What say the Doctors? _Lici._ For us a most sad saying, he is poyson'd, Beyond all cure too. _L[y]ci._ Who? _Lici._ The wretch _Aretus_, That most unhappy villain. _L[y]ci._ How do you know it? _L[i]ci._ He gave him drink last: let's disperse and find him; And since he has opened misery to all, Let it begin with him first: Softly he slumbers. _Enter_ Emperour, _sick in a Chair, with_ Eudoxia _the Empress, and_ Physicians, _and Attendants_. Musick and SONG. _Care charming sleep, thou easer of all woes,_ _Brother to death, sweetly thy self dispose_ _On this afflicted Prince, fall like a Cloud_ _In gentle showrs, give nothing that is lowd,_ _Or painfull to his slumbers; easie, sweet,_ _And as a purling stream, thou son of night,_ _Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain_ _Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver Rain,_ _Into this Prince gently, Oh gently slide,_ _And kiss him into slumbers like a Bride._ _Emp._ O gods, gods: drink, drink, colder, colder Than snow on _Scythian_ Mountains: O my heart-strings. _Eudo._ How does your Grace? _Phys._ The Empress speaks Sir. _Emp._ Dying, Dying _Eudoxia_, dying. _Phys._ Good Sir patience. _Eudo._ What have ye given him? _Phys._ Pretious things dear Lady We hope shall comfort him. _Emp._ O flatter'd fool, See what thy god-head's come to: Oh _Eudoxia_. _Eudo._ O patience, patience Sir.