If Nero lived on at the end unpunished,
Triumphing still o’er good?
Thr.Yes, Seneca:
But see you make not now your god of the stage
The God of Nature. Our true tragedy
Is just this outward riddle, and the god
That mends all, comes not in pat at his cue
On a machine, but liveth in our hearts
Resolving evil faster than it falls,
As the sun melts the snow.