_Tig._ And he now persuades Half Rome ’twas not himself who did these things, But thou ... which thou, permitting him to live, Indorsest with thy name; dost set, I say, The imperial warrant on the black account: As orphans sign away their patrimony To scheming uncles; as unwitting pupils To crafty tutors fall a prey. _Ner._ One lesson He taught me perfectly, that is to hate him. _Pop._ Thy hate and love go by half measures, Nero. _Tig._ ’Twere pretty, Cæsar, wert thou a private person, To play the philosopher upon the man Who led thee astray—albeit to sacrifice Thy wife and friend,—if he who saved thy life May style himself thy friend ... _Ner._ Yes, friend; thou savedst My life to-day. _Tig._ And yet saved not, if thou 2520 Wilt throw it straight away, and with thy saviour’s. _Ner._ Stay, I am resolved: I will not vex you further: I yield. I know there is no man in the world, Nor ever was, but hath his flaw: In some ’Tis a foul blot, that in the eye of nature Stands out unpardonable and unredeemed By all the school of virtues, howsoe’er They dance in grace around it: In another ’Tis like a beauty-mark, a starry mole Which on a virgin’s body but sets off 2530 The dazzling flesh, that else were self-extinguished In its own fairness.—Yet by these flecks and flaws, Whate’er they be, ’tis fated that men fall: And thus may I, nay must; unless in time I heed good warning, for my fault is gross. I am over-generous; yes; ye say it; I know it. That is my flaw. It is because my schemes Are wider than his own, that Seneca hates me: Because the world hath tasted more of freedom Under my rule than under any Cæsar Who went before—and that can no man question— It is for this my throne hath more been envied, And by more plots and treacheries besieged, Than ever others were: and when I saw (My safety and the people’s good being one) I must make holocaust of private feelings To that which helped the whole, then ’twas for that The bungling crowd condemned me, & where I looked For gratitude to be my consolation, I met reproach. ’Twas Seneca, ye say, 2550 Who did those things. ’Tis true those deeds were his In reason and connivence; but in the act, Doing and suffering they were mine, and are. Yet now, if he withdraw his countenance, Condemn, wear vulgar horror on his face, And turn men’s hearts against me, what could move My anger more if I were vain or cruel? No. Have your will;—and if I hinder not, He cannot blame me; since I do but play Seneca to your Cæsar. _Tig._ I thank thee, sire. He dies to-night; or shall we wait to have him Compose the palliation?