_1st M._ Nay, seven, mate. The Ulysses is put in for repairs. _SENECIO._ What is it you talk of, fellows? _1st M._ Why, where have you been, sir? Half the fleet’s ashore off Misenum. _Se^{o.}_ Wrecked? _Gri._ Ay, that they be. _Enter Epicharis._ _EPICHARIS._ Is it true, Gripus? Is the squadron lost? _Gri._ True enough. _Ep._ Was the Admiral with them? _1st M._ Regulus: ’twas Regulus at Formiæ, lady. _Ep._ Not Proculus? _1st M._ Nay, he’s with his ships in the bay. _Ep._ And the crews? _2nd M._ Ther’ll not be many stand up, when they come ashore. _Ep._ Poor fellows! And whose fault was this? _Gri._ Cæsar’s, I say, lady: and none else. _Se^{o.}_ Epicharis, see, I am returned. 1600 _Ep._ Well, I see you, sir. Have you been to Rome and back so soon? _Se^{o.}_ Yes, my house is pulled down. But I saw the Christians burned. _Ep._ Hark, sir; I have news for you. (_Takes him aside and speaks with him._) _Enter Proculus._ _PROCULUS._ What! a dozen of you fellows here! Up with you! be sharp, and off to the point. See if you can’t be of some use. You may save a life or two yet. _Mar._ We have no orders, my lord. _Pro._ Where do you expect to find your orders? Go and help your mates. You may get into a scrape yourselves some day. _Mar._ Very willing, my lord; so we be sent. (_All drain their cups standing._) _Pro._ Come, leave your possets. _Mar._ Ay, ay, my lord. [_Exeunt Mariners._ _Pro._ Epicharis, wine! _Ep._ Gauran, my lord? _Pro._ Yes.—And you, sir, I think are the gentleman that begged to go aboard the fleet to get clear of the earthquake. What did I tell you? _Se^{o.}_ You did not tell me, my lord, that Cæsar ordered you to be shipwrecked. (_Epicharis serves Pro. with wine._) _Pro._ Well, ’twas his doing: I’ll bear no blame of it. Three days ago it was Cæsar’s intention to go to Greece; we must therefore be ready to meet him at Brundisium. Never had more stringent orders. Now he has forgot all about it, and gone to Rome: and I have lost a third of the fleet for nothing. May all the gods.... _Ep._ The fire took him to Rome. _Se^{o.}_ The Romans, my lord, can never spare him long: their bread depends on him. _Pro._ Can’t that old shrimper Tigellinus feed ’em on sprats? _Se^{o.}_ Hi, hi! _Pro._ Well, sir! _Se^{o.}_ I shan’t tell. _Ep._ The wine will soothe you, my lord. (_Refilling his cup, she signs to Senecio, who goes out._) _Pro._ Thank you, lass. _Ep._ Did Cæsar give the order himself? _Pro._ Don’t talk to me. Ha, that fellow’s gone, is he? He is not one to blab? _Ep._ How should I know, my lord? _Pro._ What’s his name? _Ep._ Senecio. _Pro._ Senecio, yes, of course: one of Nero’s intimates: and I called Tigellinus an old shrimper: ’twould cost me my life if he heard it. _Ep._ No man is safe. 1650 _Pro._ Nor woman either, Epicharis: guard your tongue. _Ep._ I am a Greek, my lord. _Pro._ What’s that to serve thee?