_Max._ My noble Friend, from whose instructions I never yet took surfeit, weigh but thus much, Nor think I speak it with ambition, For by the gods, I do not; why _Æcius_, Why are we thus, or how become thus wretched? _Æcius._ You'll fall again into your fit. _Max._ I will not; Or are we now no more the Sons of _Romans_, No more the followers of their happy fortunes, But conquer'd _Gauls_, or Quivers for the _Parthians_? Why, is this _Emperour_, this man we honour, This God that ought to be? _Æcius._ You are too curious. _Max._ Good, give me leave, why is this Author of us? _Æcius._ I dare not hear ye speak thus. _Max._ I'll be modest, Thus led away, thus vainly led away, And we Beholders? misconceive me not, I sow no danger in my words; But wherefore, And to what end, are we the Sons of Fathers Famous and fast to _Rome_? why are their Vertues Stampt in the dangers of a thousand Battels? For goodness sake, their honours, time outdaring? I think for our example. _Æcius._ Ye speak nobly. _Max._ Why are we seeds of these then, to shake hands With Bawds and base informers, kiss discredit, And court her like a Mistriss? 'pray, your leave yet; You'll say the _Emperour_ is young, and apt To take impression rather from his pleasures Than any constant worthiness, it may be, But why do these, the people call his pleasures, Exceed the moderation of a man? Nay to say justly, friend, why are they vices, And such as shake our worths with forreign Nations?