Tigell. My Lord, he said that you were crown'd for that You could not doe.
Nero. For that I could not doe?
Why, Elis saw me doe't, and doe't it with wonder
Of all the Iudges and the lookers on;
And yet to see—A villaine! could not doe't?
Who did it better? I warrant you he said
I from the Chariot fell against my will.
Tigell. He said, My Lord, you were throwne out of it All crusht and maim'd and almost bruis'd to death.
Nero. Malicious Rogue! when I fell willingly
To show of purpose with what little hurt
Might a good rider beare a forced fall.
How sayest thou, Tigellinus? I am sure
Thou hast in driving as much skill as he.
Tigell. My Lord, you greater cunning shew'd in falling Then had you sate.
Nero. I know I did; or[18] bruised in my fall?
Hurt! I protest I felt no griefe in it.
Goe, Tigellinus, fetch the villaines head.
This makes me see his heart in other things.
Fetch me his head; he nere shall speake againe. [Ex. Tigell.
What doe we Princes differ from the durt
And basenesse of the common Multitude
If to the scorne of each malicious tongue
We subiect are: For that I had no skill,[19]
Not he that his farre famed daughter set
A prise to Victoria and had bin Crown'd
With thirteene Sutors deaths till he at length
By fate of Gods and Servants treason fell,
(Shoulder pack't[20] Pelops, glorying in his spoyles)
Could with more skill his coupled horses guide.
Even as a Barke that through the mooving Flood
Her linnen wings and the forc't ayre doe beare;
The Byllowes fome, she smoothly cutts them through;
So past my burning Axeltree along:
The people follow with their Eyes and Voyce,
And now the wind doth see it selfe outrun
And the Clouds wonder to be left behind,
Whilst the void ayre is fild with shoutes and noyse,
And Neroes name doth beate the brazen Skie;
Jupiter envying loath doth heare my praise.
Then their greene bowes and Crownes of Olive wreaths,
The Conquerors praise, they give me as my due.
And yet this Rogue sayth No, we have no skill.
Enter a servant to them.
Servant. My Lord, the Stage and all the furniture—
Nero. I have no skill to drive a Chariot!
Had he but robde me, broke my treasurie:
The red-Sea's mine, mine are the Indian stones,
The Worlds mine owne; then cannot I be robde?
But spightfully to undermine my fame,
To take away my arte! he would my life
As well, no doubt, could he tould (tell?) how.
Enter Tigellinus with Proculus head.