Empe. One that can pray away the sins she suffers,
But not the punishments: she has had ten Bastards,
Five of 'em now are Lictors, yet she prayes;
She has been the Song of Rome, and common Pasquil;
Since I durst see a Wench, she was Camp Mistris,
And muster'd all the cohorts, paid 'em too,
They have it yet to shew, and yet she prayes;
She is now to enter old men that are Children,
And have forgot their rudiments: am I
Left for these withered vices? and but one,
But one of all the world that could content me,
And snatch'd away in shewing? If your Wives
Be not yet Witches, or your selves now be so
And save your lives, raise me this noble beauty
As when I forc'd her, full of constancy,
Or by the Gods—
Lid. Most sacred Cæsar.
Empe. Slaves.
Enter Proculus.
Lici. Good Proculus.
Pro. You shall not see it,
It may concern the Empire.
Emp. Ha: what said'st thou?
Is she not dead?
Pro. Not any one I know, Sir;
I come to bring your Grace a Letter, here
Scatter'd belike i'th' Court: 'tis sent to Maximus
And bearing danger in it.
Emp. Danger? where?
Double our Guard.
Pro. Nay no where, but i'th' Letter.