SCENE II.
Enter Geta, Lictors.
Get. I am too merciful, I find it, friends,
Of too soft a nature to be an Officer;
I bear too much remorse.
1 Lict. 'Tis your own fault, Sir;
For look you, one so newly warm in Office
Should lay about him blindfold, like true Justice,
Hit where it will: the more ye whip and hang, Sir,
(Though without cause; let that declare it self afterward)
The more ye are admired.
Get. I think I shall be.—
2 Lict. Your worship is a man of a spare body,
And prone to anger.
Get. Nay, I will be angry,
And, the best is, I need not shew my reason.
2 Lict. You need not, Sir, your place is without reason;
And what you want in growth and full proportion,
Make up in rule and rigour.
Get. A rare Counsellor;
Instruct me further. Is it fit, my friends,
The Emperour my Master Dioclesian
Should now remember or the times or manners
That call'd him plain down Diocles?
1 Lict. He must not,
It stands not with his Royaltie.