Nimph. That was your fault:
Your Maiestie might give us leave to blame
Your dangerous courage and that noble soule
To prodigall[93] of it selfe.
Nero. A Princes mind knowes neither feare nor hope:
The beames of royall Maiestie are such
As all eyes are with it amaz'd and weakened,
But it with nothing. I at first contemn'd
Their weak devises and faint enterprise.
Why, thought they against him to have prevail'd
Whose childhood was from Messalinas spight
By Dragons[94] (that the earth gave up), preserv'd?
Such guard my cradle had, for fate had then
Pointed me out to be what now I am.
Should all the Legions and the provinces,
In one united, against me conspire
I could disperce them with one angry eye;
My brow's an host of men. Come, Tigellinus,
Let turne this bloody banquet Piso meant us
Into a merry feast; weele drink and challenge
Fortune.—Whose that Neophilus?
Enter a Roman.
Neoph. A Currier from beyond the Alpes, my Lord.
Nero. Newes of some German victory, belike, Or Britton overthrow.
Neoph. The letters come from France.
Nimph. Why smiles your Maiestie?
Nero. So, I smile? I should be afraid; there's one In Armes, Nimphidius.
Nimph. What, arm'd against your Maiestie?
Nero. Our lieutenant of the Province, Julius Vindex.