_Emp._ More drink, A thousand _April_ showres fall in my bosom: How dare ye let me be tormented thus? Away with that prodigious body, gods, Gods, let me ask ye what I am, ye lay All your inflictions on me, hear me, hear me; I do confess I am a ravisher, A murderer, a hated _Cæsar_; oh, Are there not vows enough, and flaming altars, The fat of all the world for sacrifice, And where that fails, the blood of thousand captives To purge those sins? but I must make the incense? I do despise ye all, ye have no mercy, And wanting that, ye are no Gods, your paroll Is only preach'd abroad to make Fools fearfull, And women made of awe, believe your heaven: Oh torments, torments, torments, pains above pains, If ye be any thing but dreams, and ghosts, And truly hold the guidance of things mortal; Have in your selves times past, to come, and present, Fashion the souls of men, and make flesh for 'em, Weighing our fates, and fortunes beyond reason, Be more than all the Gods, great in forgiveness, Break not the goodly frame ye build in anger; For you are things men teach us, without passions, Give me an hour to know ye in: Oh save me But so much perfect time ye make a soul in, Take this destruction from me; no, ye cannot, The more I would believe ye, more I suffer, My brains are ashes, now my heart, my eyes friends; I goe, I goe, more air, more air; I am mortal.-- [_He dyes._ _Pro._ Take in the body: oh _Licinius_, The misery that we are left to suffer; No pity shall find us. _Lici._ Our lives deserve none: Would I were chain'd again to slavery, With any hope of life. _Pro._ A quiet grave, Or a consumption now _Licinius_, That we might be too poor to kill, were something. _Lici._ Let's make our best use, we have mony _Proculus_, And if that cannot save us, we have swords. _Pro._ Yes, but we dare not dye. _Lici._ I had forgot that: There's other countries then. _Pro._ But the same hate still, Of what we are. _Lici._ Think any thing, I'le follow-- _Enter a_ Messenger. _Pro._ How now, what news? _Mess._ Shift for your selves, ye are lost else: The Souldier is in arms for great _Aecius_, And their Lieutenant general that stopt 'em, Cut in a thousand pieces: they march hither: Beside, the women of the Town have murder'd _Phorba_, and loose _Ardelia_, _Cæsar_'s she-Bawds. _Lici._ Then here's no staying _Proculus_? _Pro._ O _Cæsar_, That we had never known thy lusts: Let's fly, And where we find no womans man let's dye.-- SCENE III. _Enter_ Maximus.