_Cam._ I would applaud him, Were he saluted _Cæsar_: but I fear These long protracted counsels will undo us; And 'tis beyond my reason, he being dead, You should conceal your self, or hope it can Continue undiscover'd. _Aper._ That I have kill'd him, Yet feed these ignorant fools with hopes he lives, Has a main end in't. The _Pannonian_ Cohorts (That are my own, and sure) are not come up, The _German_ Legions waver, and _Charinus_ (Brother to this dead dog) (hells plagues on _Niger_) Is jealous of the murther; and, I hear, Is marching up against me. 'Tis not safe, Till I have power, to justifie the Act, To shew my self the authour: be therefore careful For an hour or two (till I have fully sounded How the Tribunes and Centurio[n]s stand affected) That none come near the Litter. If I find them Firm on my part, I dare profess my self, And then live _Aper_'s equal. _Cam._ Does not the body Begin to putrifie? _Aper._ That exacts my haste: When, but even now, I feign'd obedience to it, As I had some great business to impart, The scent had almost choak'd me: be therefore curious: All keep at distance. [_Exit._ _Cam._ I am taught my part; Haste you to perfect yours. _1 Guard._ I had rather meet An enemy in the field, than stand thus nodding Like to a rug-gown'd Watch-man. _Enter_ Diocles, Maximinian, Geta. _Geta._ The Watch at noon? This is a new device. _Cam._ Stand. _Dio._ I am arm'd Against all danger. _Max._ If I fear to follow, A Cowards name pursue me. _Dio._ Now my Fate Guide and direct me. _Cam._ You are rude and sawcy, With your forbidden feet to touch this ground, Sacred to _Cæsar_ only, and to these That do attend his person; Speak, what are you? _Dio._ What thou, nor any of thy faction are, Nor ever were: Souldiers, and honest men. _Cam._ So blunt? _Geta._ Nay, you shall find he's good at the sharp too. _Dio._ No instruments of craft: engines of murther, That serve the Emperour only with oil'd tongues, Sooth and applaud his vices, play the Bauds To all his appetites; and when you have wrought So far upon his weakness, that he's grown Odious to the subject and himself, And can no further help your wicked ends, You rid him out of the way. _Cam._ Treason? _Dio._ 'Tis truth, And I will make it good. _Cam._ Lay hands upon 'em, Or kill them suddenly. _Geta._ I am out at that; I do not like the sport.