[Exeunt.
(SCENE 7.)
Enter Antonius, Enanthe.
Anton. Sure this message of the Princes, So grievous and unlookt for, will appall Petronius much.
Enan. Will not death any man?
Anton. It will; but him so much the more
That, having liv'd to his pleasure, shall forgoe
So delicate a life. I doe not marvell[83]
That Seneca and such sowre fellowes can
Leave that they never tasted, but when we
That have the Nectar of thy kisses felt,
That drinkes away the troubles of this life,
And but one banquet make of forty yeeres,
Must come to leave this;—but, soft, here he is.
Enter Petronius and a Centurion.
Petron. Leave me a while, Centurion, to my friends; Let me my farewell take, and thou shalt see Neroes commandement quickly obaid in mee. [Ex. Centur. —Come, let us drinke and dash the posts with wine! Here throw your flowers; fill me a swelling bowle Such as Mecenas or my Lucan dranke On Virgills birth day.[84]
Enan. What meanes, Petronius, this unseasonable And causelesse mirth? Why, comes not from the Prince This man to you a messenger of death?
Petron. Here, faire Enanthe, whose plumpe, ruddy cheeke
Exceeds the grape!—It makes this[85]—here, my geyrle. (He drinks.)
—And thinkst thou death a matter of such harme?
Why, he must have this pretty dimpling chin,
And will pecke out those eyes that now so wound.