_Petr._ Why, see, There are a hundred subtle ways by which, Had Cæsar done the thing, he had not been blamed. This vulgar butchery displays to all The motive, which so hurts your sense of right That ye neglect the manner. Why, I say, A just attention to the circumstance Would hide the doing; but thus done, the doing Proclaims the deed. And is’t not plain that ye Must share the guilt? Seneca, look for that. 3130 _Sen._ ’Tis very well for you, Petronius, To take upon yourself the criticism And ordering of appearances, and say ’If aught goes ill, blame me.’ You lay your hand On any object you mislike, remove it, Replace it as you will, can please yourself: Nay, you can blame their taste who are not pleased. But he who deals with men, and seeks to mould A character to that high rule of right Which so few can attain, he works, I say, 3140 With different matter, nor can he be blamed By any measure of his ill success. His best endeavours are like little dams Built ’gainst the ocean, on a sinking shore. Nature asserts her force—and the wise man Blames not himself for his defeat. For me, Much as my soul is grieved, ay, and my pride Wounded—tho’ yet, I thank philosophy, I can be glad for that,—my hopes—for this I mourn—my hopes blasted; yet, hear me say, I take unto myself no self-reproach, 3151 Nay, not a tittle of the part of mischief A vulgar mind might credit to my score. I have done my best, and that’s the utmost good A man can do; and if a better man Had in my place done more, ’tis perverse Fortune That placed me ill. Thus far I argue with you, Who look on me askance, and think my heart Is tainted; as if I would in such case Do such thing, as—poison my brother at table, Contrive to kill my mother: ’Tis so far 3161 From possible, that to my ears the words Carry no sense: nay, and I think such crimes May seem more horrible to other men, Whose passions make them fear them, than to me Who cannot think them mine. As for the rest, I stand with you, and never from this hour Shall mix with Cæsar more with any hope Of good. Indeed I have hoped too long, and yet The end has come too soon. 3170 _Re-enter Anicetus, Tigellinus, and Paris._ _Tig._ ’Tis done, ’tis done. _Ani._ Where is Cæsar? _Bur._ Within. [_Anicetus and Tigellinus hurry within._ _Petr._ Paris, is it true? _Par._ The Augusta lives no longer, Most brutally and miserably slain: Yet died she bravely. _Petr._ And why wentest thou To soil thy hand?