_Enter_ Proculus, Licinius, _with_ Aretus. _Emp._ _Danubius_ I'le have brought through my body. _Eudo._ Gods give comfort. _Emp._ And _Volga_, on whose face the North wind freezes, I find an hundred hells, a hundred Piles Already to my Funerals are flaming, Shall I not drink? _Phys._ You must not Sir. _Emp._ By Heaven I'le let my breath out that shall burn ye all If ye deny me longer: tempests blow me, And inundations that have drunk up Kingdoms Flow over me, and quench me: where's the villain? Am I immortal now ye slaves? by _Numa_ If he do scape: Oh, oh. _Eudo._ Dear Sir. _Emp._ Like _Nero_, But far more terrible, and full of slaughter, I'th' midst of all my flames I'le fire the Empire: A thousand fans, a thousand fans to cool me: Invite the gentle winds _Eudoxia_. _Eudo._ Sir. _Emp._ Oh do not flatter me, I am but flesh, A man, a mortal man: drink, drink, ye dunces; What can your doses now do, and your scrapings, Your oyles, and Mithridates? if I do die, You only words of health, and names of sickness Finding no true disease in man but mony, That talk your selves into Revenues, oh And e're ye kill your patients, begger 'em, I'le have ye flead, and dri'd. _Pro._ The Villain Sir; The most accursed wretch. _Emp._ Be gone my Queen, This is no sight for thee: goe to the Vestals, Cast holy incense in the fire, and offer One powerfull sacrifice to free thy _Cæsar_. _Pro._ Goe goe and be happy. [_Exit_ Eudox[i]a. _Aret._ Goe, but give no ease, The Gods have set thy last hour _Valentinian_, Thou art but man, a bad man too, a beast, And like a sensuall bloudy thing thou diest. _Pro._ Oh Traitor. _Aret._ Curse your selves ye flatterers, And howle your miseries to come ye wretches, You taught him to be poyson'd. _Emp._ Yet no comfort? _Aret._ Be not abus'd with Priests, nor Pothecaries, They cannot help thee; Thou hast now to live A short half hour, no more, and I ten minutes: I gave thee poyson for _Aecius_ sake, Such a destroying poyson would kill nature; And, for thou shalt not die alone, I took it. If mankind had been in thee at this murder, No more to people earth again, the wings Of old time clipt for ever, reason lost, In what I had attempted, yet O _Cæsar_ To purchase fair revenge, I had poyson'd them too. _Emp._ O villain: I grow hotter, hotter. _Are._ Yes; But not near my heat yet; what thou feel'st now, Mark me with horror _Cæsar_, are but Embers Of lust and leachery thou hast committed: But there be flames of murder. _Emp._ Fetch out tortures.