Max. Now worthy friends I have done my mournings,
Let's burn this noble body: Sweets as many
As sun-burnt Meroe breeds, I'le make a flame of,
Shall reach his soul in Heaven: he that shall live
Ten ages hence, but to reherse this story,
Shall with the sad discourse on't, darken Heaven,
And force the painful burdens from the wombs
Conceiv'd a new with sorrow: even the Grave
Where mighty Sylla sleeps shall rend asunder
And give her shadow up, to come and groan
About our piles, which will be more, and greater
Than green Olympus, Ida, or old Latmus
Can feed with Cedar, or the East with Gums,
Greece with her wines, or Thessalie with flowers,
Or willing heaven can weep for in her showres. [Exeunt.
[Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.]
Enter Phidias, with his dagger in him, and Aretus, poyson'd.
Are. He has his last.
Phi. Then come the worst of danger,
Æcius to thy soul we give a Cæsar.
How long is't since ye gave it him?
Are. An hour,
Mine own two hours before him: how it boils me!
Phi. It was not to be cur'd I hope.
Are. No Phidias,
I dealt above his Antidotes: Physicians
May find the cause, but where the cure?
Phi. Done bravely,
We are got before his Tyranny Aretus.