SEJANUS.
O, the fates!
What a wild muster’s here of attributes,
T’ express a worm, a snake!
TERENTIUS.
But how that should
Come there, my lord!
SEJANUS.
What, and you too, Terentius!
I think you mean to make ’t a prodigy
In your reporting.
TERENTIUS.
Can the wise Sejanus
Think heaven hath meant it less!
SEJANUS.
O, superstition!
Why, then the falling of our bed, that brake
This morning, burden’d with the populous weight,
Of our expecting clients, to salute us;
Or running of the cat betwixt our legs,
As we set forth unto the Capitol,
Were prodigies.
TERENTIUS.
I think them ominous;
And would they had not happened! As, to-day,
The fate of some your servants: who, declining
Their way, not able, for the throng, to follow,
Slipt down the Gemonies, and brake their necks!
Besides, in taking your last augury,
No prosperous bird appear’d; but croaking ravens
Flagg’d up and down, and from the sacrifice
Flew to the prison, where they sat all night,
Beating the air with their obstreperous beaks!
I dare not counsel, but I could entreat,
That great Sejanus would attempt the gods
Once more with sacrifice.
SEJANUS.
What excellent fools
Religion makes of men! Believes Terentius,
If these were dangers, as I shame to think them,
The gods could change the certain course of fate!
Or, if they could they would, now in a moment,
For a beeve’s fat, or less, be bribed to invert
Those long decrees? Then think the gods, like flies,
Are to be taken with the steam of flesh,
Or blood, diffused about their altars: think
Their power as cheap as I esteem it small.—
Of all the throng that fill th’ Olympian hall,
And, without pity, lade poor Atlas’ back,
I know not that one deity, but Fortune,
To whom I would throw up, in begging smoke,
One grain of incense; or whose ear I’d buy
With thus much oil. Her I, indeed, adore;
And keep her grateful image in my house,
Sometime belonging to a Roman king.
But now call’d mine, as by the better style:
To her I care not, if, for satisfying
Your scrupulous phant’sies, I go offer. Bid
Our priest prepare us honey, milk, and poppy,
His masculine odours, and night-vestments: say,
Our rites are instant; which perform’d, you’ll see
How vain, and worthy laughter, your fears be.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II.—Another Room in the same.
Enter Cotta and Pomponius.