SCENE III.

_Enter_ Proculus, _and_ Pontius.

_Pro._ Besides this, if you do it, you enjoy The noble name _Patrician_: more than that too, The friend of _Cæsar_ ye are stil'd: there's nothing Within the hopes of _Rome_, or present being, But you may safely say is yours.

_Pon._ Pray stay Sir; What has _Aecius_ done to be destroy'd? At least I would have a colour.

_Pro._ Ye have more, Nay all that may be given, he is a Traitor, One, any man would strike that were a subject.

_Pon._ Is he so foul?

_Pro._ Yes, a most fearfull Traytor.

_Pon._ A fearfull plague upon thee, for thou lyest; I ever thought the Souldier would undoe him With his too much affection.

_Pro._ Ye have hit it, They have brought him to ambition.

_Pon._ Then he is gone.

_Pro._ The Emperour out of a foolish pitie, Would save him yet.

_Pon._ Is he so mad?

_Pro._ He's madder! Would goe to'th' Army to him.

_Pon._ Would he so?

_Pro._ Yes _Pontius_; but we consider--

_Pon._ Wisely.

_Pro._ How else man, that the state lies in it.

_Pon._ And your lives too.

_Pro._ And every mans.

_Pon._ He did me All the disgrace he could.

_Pro._ And scurvily.

_Pon._ Out of a mischief meerly: did you mark it?

_Pro._ Yes well enough. Now ye have means to quit it, The deed done, take his place.

_Pon._ Pray let me think on't, 'Tis ten to one I do it.

_Pro._ Do and be happy.-- [_Exit_ Pro.

_Pon._ This Emperour is made of nought but mischief, Sure, Murther was his Mother: none to lop, But the main link he had? upon my conscience The man is truly honest, and that kills him; For to live here, and study to be true, Is all one to be Traitors: why should he die? Have they not Slaves and Rascals for their Offrings In full abundance; Bawds more than beasts for slaughter? Have they not singing whores enough, and knaves too, And millions of such Martyrs to sink _Charon_, But the best sons of _Rome_ must sail too? I will shew him (since he must dye) a way to do it truly: And though he bears me hard, yet shall he know, I am born to make him bless me for a blow.-- [_Exit._

SCENE [IV].

_Enter_ Phidias, Aretus, _and_ Æcius.

_Phi._ Yet ye may 'scape to th' Camp, we'l hazard with ye.

_Aret._ Lose not your life so basely Sir: ye are arm'd, And many when they see your sword out, and know why, Must follow your adventure.

_Aeci._ Get ye from me: Is not the doom of _Cæsar_ on this body, Do not I bear my last hour here, now sent me? Am I not old _Aecius_, ever dying? You think this tenderness and love you bring me, 'Tis treason, and the strength of disobedience, And if ye tempt me further, ye shall feel it: I seek the Camp for safety, when my death Ten times more glorious than my life, and lasting Bids me be happy? Let the fool fear dying, Or he that weds a woman for his honour, Dreaming no other life to come but kisses; _Aecius_ is not now to learn to suffer: If ye dare shew a just affection, kill me, I stay but those that must: why do ye weep? Am I so wretched to deserve mens pities? Goe give your tears to those that lose their worths, Bewail their miseries, for me wear Garlands, Drink wine, and much; sing _Peans_ to my praise, I am to triumph friends, and more than _Cæsar_, For _Cæsar_ fears to die, I love to die.

_Phi._ O my dear Lord!

_Aeci._ No more, goe, goe I say; Shew me not signs of sorrow, I deserve none: Dare any man lament, I should die nobly? Am I grown old to have such enemies? When I am dead, speak honourably of me, That is, preserve my memory from dying; There if you needs must weep your ruin'd Master, A tear or two will seem well: this I charge ye, (because ye say you yet love old _Aecius_) See my poor body burnt, and some to sing About my Pile, and what I have done and suffer'd, If _Cæsar_ kill not that too: at your banquets When I am gone, if any chance to number The times that have been sad and dangerous, Say how I fell, and 'tis sufficient: No more I say, he that laments my end By all the gods dishonours me; be gone And suddainly, and wisely from my dangers, My death is catching else.

_Phi._ We fear not dying.

_Aec._ Yet fear a wilfull death, the just Gods hate it, I need no company to that that Children Dare do alone, and Slaves are proud to purchase; Live till your honesties, as mine has done, Make this corrupted age sick of your vertues, Then dye a sacrifice, and then ye know The noble use of dying well, and _Roman_.

_Are._ And must we leave ye Sir?

_Aeci._ We must all die, All leave our selves, it matters not where, when, Nor how, so we die well: and can that man that does so Need lamentation for him? Children weep Because they have offended, or for fear; Women for want of will, and anger; is there In noble man, that truly feels both poyses Of life and death, so much of this wet weakness, To drown a glorious death in child and woman? I am asham'd to see ye; yet ye move me, And were it not my manhood would accuse me, For covetous to live, I should weep with ye.

_Phi._ O we shall never see you more.

_Aeci._ 'Tis true; Nor I the miseries that _Rome_ shall suffer, Which is a benefit life cannot reckon: But what I have been, which is just, and faithfull; One that grew old for _Rome_, when _Rome_ forgot him, And for he was an honest man durst die, Ye shall have daily with ye: could that dye too, And I return no traffick of my travels, No pay to have been Souldier, but this Silver, No _Annals_ of _Æcius_, but he liv'd, My friends, ye had cause to weep, and bitterly; The common overflows of tender women, And children new born crying, were too little To shew me then most wretched: if tears must be, I should in justice weep 'em, and for you, You are to live, and yet behold those slaughters The drie, and wither'd bones of death would bleed at: But sooner, than I have time to think what must be, I fear you'l find what shall be; If ye love me, Let that word serve for all, be gone and leave me; I have some little practice with my soul, And then the sharpest sword is welcom'st; goe, Pray be gone, ye have obey'd me living, Be not for shame now stubborn; so I thank ye, And fare ye well, a better fortune guide ye--

[_Exeunt_ Phi. _and_ Aretus.

I am a little thirstie, not for fear, And yet it is a kind of fear, I say so; Is it to be a just man now again, And leave my flesh unthought of? 'tis departed: I hear 'em come, who strikes first? I stay for ye:

_Enter_ Balbus, Chilax, Licinius.

Yet I will dye a Souldier, my sword drawn, But against none: Why do ye fear? come forward.

_Bal._ You were a Souldier _Chilax_.

_Chil._ Yes, I muster'd But never saw the Enemy.

_Lici._ He's drawn, By heaven I dare not do it.

_Aeci._ Why do ye tremble? I am to die, come ye not now from _Cæsar_ To that end, speak?

_Bal._ We do, and we must kill ye, 'Tis _Cæsars_ will.

_Chil._ I charge you put your sword up, That we may do it handsomly.

_Aeci._ Ha, ha, ha, My sword up, handsomly? where were ye bred? Ye are the merriest murderers my masters I ever met withal; Come forward fools, Why do ye stare? upon mine honour Bawds, I will not strike ye.

_Lici._ I'le not be first.

_Bal._ Nor I.

_Chil._ You had best die quietly: the Emperour Sees how you bear your self.

_Aeci._ I would die Rascals, If you would kill me quietly.

_Bal._ ---- of _Proculus_, He promis'd us to bring a Captain hither, That has been used to kill.

_Aeci._ I'le call the Guard, Unless you will kill me quickly, and proclaim What beastly, base, and cowardly companions The Emperour has trusted with his safetie: Nay I'le give out, ye fell of my side, villains, Strike home ye bawdy slaves.

_Chil._ He will kill us, I mark'd his hand, he waits but time to reach us, Now do you offer.

_Aeci._ If ye do mangle me, And kill me not at two blows, or at three, Or not so stagger me, my senses fail me, Look to your selves.

_Chil._ I told ye.

_Aeci._ Strike me manly, And take a thousand strokes.--

_Enter_ Pontius.

_Bal._ Here's _Pontius_.

_Pon._ Not kill'd him yet? Is this the love ye bear the Emperour? Nay then I see ye are Traitors all, have at ye.-- [Lici. _runs away_.

_Chi._ Oh I am hurt.

_Bal._ And I am kill'd-- [_Exeunt_ Chil. _and_ Bal.

_Pon._ Dye Bawds; As ye have liv'd and flourish'd.

_Aeci._ Wretched fellow, What hast thou done?

_Pon._ Kill'd them that durst not kill, And you are next.

_Aeci._ Art thou not _Pontius_?

_Pon._ I am the same you cast _Æcius_, And in the face of all the Camp disgrac'd.

_Aec._ Then so much nobler, as thou wert a Souldier, Shall my death be: is it revenge provok'd thee, Or art thou hir'd to kill me?

_Pon._ Both.

_Aeci._ Then do it.

_Pon._ Is that all?

_Aeci._ Yes.

_Pon._ Would you not live?

_Aeci._ Why should I, To thank thee for my life?

_Pon._ Yes, if I spare it.

_Aeci._ Be not deceiv'd, I was not made to thank For any courtesie, but killing me, A fellow of thy fortune; do thy duty.

_Pon._ Do not you fear me?

_Aeci._ No.

_Pon._ Nor love me for it?

_Aeci._ That's as thou dost thy business.

_Pon._ When you are dead, Your place is mine _Æcius_.

_Aeci._ Now I fear thee, And not alone thee _Pontius_, but the Empire.

_Pon._ Why, I can govern Sir.

_Aeci._ I would thou couldst, And first thy self: Thou canst fight well, and bravely, Thou canst endure all dangers, heats, colds, hungers; Heavens angry flashes are not suddainer, Than I have seen thee execute; nor more mortal; The winged feet of flying enemies I have stood and view'd thee mow away like rushes, And still kill the killer: were thy minde, But half so sweet in peace, as rough in dangers, I died to leave a happy heir behind me; Come strike, and be a General.

_Pon._ Prepare then: And, for I see your honour cannot lessen, And 'twere a shame for me to strike a dead man, Fight your short span out.

_Aeci._ No thou knowst I must not, I dare not give thee so much vantage of me, As disobedience.

_Pon._ Dare ye not defend ye Against your enemy?

_Aeci._ Not sent from _Cæsar_, I have no power to make such enemies; For as I am condemn'd, my naked sword Stands but a hatchment by me; only held To shew I was a Souldier; had not _Cæsar_ Chain'd all defence in this doom, let him die, Old as I am, and quench'd with scarrs, and sorrows, Yet would I make this wither'd Arm do wonders, And open in an enemy such wounds Mercy would weep to look on.

_Pon._ Then have at ye, And look upon me, and be sure ye fear not: Remember who you are, and why you live, And what I have been to you: cry not hold, Nor think it base injustice I should kill ye.

_Aeci._ I am prepar'd for all.

_Pon._ For now _Æcius_, Thou shalt behold and find I was no traitor, And as I do it, bless me; die as I do.-- [Pontius _kills himself_.

_Aeci._ Thou hast deceiv'd me _Pontius_, and I thank thee; By all my hopes in Heaven, thou art a _Roman_.

_Pon._ To shew you what you ought to do, this is not; For slanders self would shame to find you coward, Or willing to out-live your honestie: But noble Sir, ye have been jealous of me, And held me in the rank of dangerous persons, And I must dying say it was but justice, Ye cast me from my credit; yet believe me, For there is nothing now but truth to save me, And your forgiveness, though ye held me hainous, And of a troubled spirit, that like fire Turns all to flames it meets with, ye mistook me; If I were foe to any thing, 'twas ease, Want of the Souldiers due, the Enemy The nakedness we found at home, and scorn, Children of peace, and pleasures, no regard Nor comfort for our scars, but how we got 'em, To rusty time, that eat our bodies up, And even began to prey upon our honours, To wants at home, and more than wants, abuses, To them, that when the Enemy invaded Made us their Saints, but now the sores of _Rome_; To silken flattery, and pride plain'd over, Forgetting with what wind their feathers sail, And under whose protection their soft pleasures Grow full and numberless: to this I am foe, Not to the state, or any point of duty: And let me speak but what a Souldier may, Truly I ought to be so; yet I err'd, Because a far more noble sufferer Shew'd me the way to patience, and I lost it: This is the end I die Sir; to live basely, And not the follower of him that bred me, In full account and vertue, _Pontius_ dare not, Much less to out-live what is good, and flatter.

_Aeci._ I want a name to give thy vertue Souldier, For only good is far below thee _Pontius_, The gods shall find thee one; thou hast fashion'd death In such an excellent, and beauteous manner, I wonder men can live: Canst thou speak once more, For thy words are such harmony, a soul Would choose to flye to Heaven in.

_Pon._ A farewel: Good noble General your hand, forgive me, And think what ever was displeasing you, Was none of mine: ye cannot live.

_Aeci._ I will not: Yet one word more.

_Pon._ Dye nobly: _Rome_ farewel: And _Valentinian_ fall, thou hast broke thy Basis. In joy ye have given me a quiet death, I would strike more wounds, if I had more breath-- [_He dyes._

_Aeci._ Is there an hour of goodness beyond this? Or any man would out-live such a dying? Would _Cæsar_ double all my honours on me, And stick me o're with favours, like a Mistris; Yet would I grow to this man: I have loved, But never doated on a face till now: O death thou art more than beautie, and thy pleasure Beyond posterity: Come friends and kill me; _Cæsar_ be kind, and send a thousand swords, The more, the greater is my fall: why stay ye? Come, and I'le kiss your weapons: fear me not, By all the gods I'le honour ye for killing: Appear, or through the Court, and world, I'le search ye: My sword is gone; ye are Traitors if ye spare me, And _Cæsar_ must consume ye: all base cowards? I'le follow ye, and e're I dye proclaim ye The weeds of _Italy_; the dross of nature-- Where are ye, villains, traytors, slaves.-- [_Exit._

_Enter_ Proculus, _and 3 others running over the Stage_.

_Pro._ I knew H'ad kill'd the Captain.

_1._ Here's his sword.

_Pro._ Let it alone, 'twill fight it self else; friends, An hundred men are not enough to do it, I'le to the Emperour, and get more aid.

_Aeci._ None strike a poor condemned man?

_Pro._ He is mad: Shift for your selves my Masters.-- [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Æcius.

_Æcius._ Then _Æcius_, See what thou darst thy self; hold my good sword, Thou hast been kept from bloud too long, I'le kiss thee, For thou art more then friend now, my preserver, Shew me the way to happiness, I seek it: And all you great ones, that have faln as I do, To keep your memories, and honours living, Be present in your vertues, and assist me, That like strong _Cato_, I may put away All promises, but what shall crown my ashes; _Rome_, fare thee well: stand long, and know to conquer Whilst there is people, and ambition: Now for a stroak shall turn me to a Star: I come ye blessed spirits, make me room To live for ever in _Elyzium_: Do men fear this? O that posterity Could learn from him but this, that loves his wound, There is no pain at all in dying well, Nor none are lost, but those that make their hell-- [_Kills himself._

_Enter_ Proculus, _and two others_.

1 _Within._ He's dead, draw in the Guard again.

_Pro._ He's dead indeed, And I am glad he's gone; he was a Devil: His body, if his Eunuchs come, is theirs; The Emperour out of his love to vertue, Has given 'em that: Let no man stop their entrance. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Phidias, _and_ Aretus.

_Phi._ O my most noble Lord, look here _Aretus_, Here's a sad sight.

_Aret._ O cruelty! O _Cæsar_! O times that bring forth nothing but destruction, And over[fl]ows of bloud: why wast thou kill'd? Is it to be a just man now again, As when _Tiberius_ and wild _Nero_ reign'd, Only assurance of his over throw?

_Phi[d]._ It is _Aretus_: he that would live now, Must like the Toad, feed only on corruptions, And grow with those to greatness: honest vertue, And the true _Roman_ honour, faith and valour That have been all the riches of the Empire, Now like the fearfull tokens of the Plague, Are meer fore-runners of their ends that owe 'em.

_Are._ Never enough lamented Lord: dear Master--

_Enter_ Maximus.

Of whom now shall we learn to live like men? From whom draw out our actions just, and worthy? Oh thou art gone, and gone with thee all goodness, The great example of all equitie, O thou alone a _Roman_, thou art perish'd, Faith, fortitude, and constant nobleness, Weep _Rome_, weep _Italy_, weep all that knew him, And you that fear'd him as a noble Foe, (If Enemies have honourable tears) Weep this decay'd _Æcius_ faln, and scattered-- By foul, and base suggestion.

_Ph[i]._ O Lord _Maximus_, This was your worthy friend.

_Max._ The gods forgive me: Think not the worse my friends, I shed not tears, Great griefs lament within; yet now I have found 'em: Would I had never known the world, nor women, Nor what that cursed name of honour was, So this were once again _Æcius_: But I am destin'd to a mighty action, And begg my pardon friend, my vengeance taken, I will not be long from thee: ye have a great loss, But bear it patiently, yet to say truth In justice 'tis not sufferable: I am next, And were it now, I would be glad on't: friends, Who shall preserve you now?

_Are._ Nay we are lost too.

_Max._ I fear ye are, for likely such as love The man that's faln, and have been nourish'd by him, Do not stay long behind: 'Tis held no wisdom. I know what I must do. O my _Æcius_, Canst thou thus perish, pluckt up by the roots, And no man feel thy worthiness? From boys He bred you both I think.

_Phi._ And from the poorest.

_Max._ And lov'd ye as his own.

_Are._ We found it Sir.

_Max._ Is not this a loss then?

_Phi._ O, a loss of losses; Our lives, and ruines of our families, The utter being nothing of our names, Were nothing near it.

_Max._ As I take it too, He put ye to the Emperour.

_Are._ He did so.

_Max._ And kept ye still in credit.

_Phi._ 'Tis most true Sir.

_Max._ He fed your Fathers too, and made them means, Your Sisters he prefer'd to noble Wedlocks, Did he not friends?

_Are._ Oh yes Sir.

_Max._ As I take it This worthy man would not be now forgotten, I tell ye to my grief, he was basely murdred; And something would be done, by those that lov'd him: And something may be: pray stand off a little, Let me bewail him private: O my dearest.

_Phi._ _Aretus_, if we be not sudden, he outdoes us, I know he points at ven[ge]ance; we are cold, And base ungratefull wretches, if we shun it: Are we to hope for more rewards, or greatness, Or any thing but death, now he is dead? Dar'st thou resolve?

_Are._ I am perfect.

_Phi._ Then like flowers That grew together all we'l fall together, And with us that that bore us: when 'tis done The world shall stile us two deserving servants: I fear he will be before us.

_Are._ This night _Phidias_.

_Phi._ No more.

_Max._ Now worthy friends I have done my mournings, Let's burn this noble body: Sweets as many As sun-burnt _Meroe_ breeds, I'le make a flame of, Shall reach his soul in Heaven: he that shall live Ten ages hence, but to reherse this story, Shall with the sad discourse on't, darken Heaven, And force the painful burdens from the wombs Conceiv'd a new with sorrow: even the Grave Where mighty _Sylla_ sleeps shall rend asunder And give her shadow up, to come and groan About our piles, which will be more, and greater Than green _Olympus_, _Ida_, or old _Latmus_ Can feed with Cedar, or the East with Gums, _Greece_ with her wines, or _Thessalie_ with flowers, Or willing heaven can weep for in her showres. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Quintus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Phidias, _with his dagger in him, and_ Aretus, _poyson'd_.

_Are._ He has his last.

_Phi._ Then come the worst of danger, _Æcius_ to thy soul we give a _Cæsar_. How long is't since ye gave it him?

_Are._ An hour, Mine own two hours before him: how it boils me!

_Phi._ It was not to be cur'd I hope.

_Are._ No _Phidias_, I dealt above his Antidotes: Physicians May find the cause, but where the cure?

_Phi._ Done bravely, We are got before his Tyranny _Aretus_.

_Are._ We had lost our worthiest end else _Phidias_.

_Phi._ Canst thou hold out a while?

_Are._ To torture him Anger would give me leave, to live an age yet; That man is poorly spirited, whose life Runs in his bloud alone, and not in's wishes, And yet I swell, and burn like flaming _Ætna_, A thousand new found fires are kindled in me, But yet I must not die this four hours _Phidias_.

_Phi._ Remember who dies with thee, and despise death.

_Are._ I need no exhortation, the joy in me Of what I have done, and why, makes poyson pleasure, And my most killing torments mistresses. For how can he have time to dye, or pleasure That falls as fools unsatisfied, and simple?

_Phi._ This that consumes my life, yet keeps it in me, Nor do I feel the danger of a dying, And if I but endure to hear the curses Of this fell Tyrant dead, I have half my Heaven.

_Are._ Hold thy soul fast but four hours _Phidias_, And thou shalt see to wishes beyond ours, Nay more beyond our meanings.

_Phi._ Thou hast steel'd me: Farewel _Aretus_, and the souls of good men, That as ours do, have left their _Roman_ bodies In brave revenge for vertue, guide our shadows, I would not faint yet.

_Are._ Farewel _Phidias_ And as we have done nobly, gods look on us.--

[_Exeunt severally._