Man. Who shall I now have to set right my youth? Gods, if yee be not fled from Heaven, helpe us.
Nero. I like this Musique well; they like not mine.
Now in the teare of all men let me sing,
And make it doubtfull to the Gods above
Whether the Earth be pleas'd or doe complaine.
(Within, cantat.)
Man. But may the man that all this blood hath shed
Never bequeath to th'earth an old gray head;
Let him untimely be cut off before.
And leave a course like this, all wounds and gore;
Be there no friends at hand, no standers by
In love or pittie mov'd to close that Eye:
O let him die, the wish and hate of all,
And not a teare to grace his Funerall.
[Exeunt.
Wom. Heaven, you will heare (that which the world doth scorn)
The prayers of misery and soules forlorne.
Your anger waxeth by delaying stronger,
O now for mercy be despis'd no longer;
Let him that makes so many Mothers childlesse
Make his unhappy in her fruitfulnesse.
Let him no issue leave to beare his name
Or sonne to right a Fathers wronged fame;
Our flames to quit be righteous in your yre,
And when he dies let him want funerall fire.
[Exeunt.
Nero. Let Heaven do what it will, this I have done.
Already doe you feel my furies waight:
Rome is become a grave of her late greatnes;
Her clowdes of smoke have tane away the day,
Her flames the night.
Now, unbeleaving Eyes, what crave you more?
Enter Neophilus to him.
Neoph. O save your selfe, my Lord: your Pallace burnes.