I met reproach. ’Twas Seneca, ye say,
Who did those things. ’Tis true those deeds were his
In reason and connivence; but in the act,
Doing and suffering they were mine, and are.
Yet now, if he withdraw his countenance,
Condemn, wear vulgar horror on his face,
And turn men’s hearts against me, what could move
My anger more if I were vain or cruel?
No. Have your will;—and if I hinder not,
He cannot blame me; since I do but play