I, now my Troy lookes beautious in her flames;
The Tyrrhene Seas are bright with Roman fires
Whilst the amazed Mariner afarre,
Gazing on th’unknowne light, wonders what starre
Heaven hath begot to ease the aged Moone. 
When Pirrhus, stryding ore the cynders, stood
On ground where Troy late was, and with his Eye
Measur’d the height of what he had throwne downe,—­
A Citie great in people and in power,
Walls built with hands of God—­he now forgive[s]
The ten yeares length and thinkes his wounds well heald,
Bath’d in the blood of Priams fifty sonnes. 
Yet am not I appeas’d; I must see more
Then Towers and Collomns tumble to the ground;
’Twas not the high built walls and guiltlesse stones
That Nero did provoke:  themselves must be the wood
To feed this fire or quench it with their blood.

    Enter a Woman with a burnt Child.

Wom.  O my deare Infant, O my Child, my Child, Unhappy comfort of my nine moneths paines; And did I beare thee only for the fire, Was I to that end made a mother?

Nero.  I, now begins the sceane that I would have.

    Enter a Man bearing another dead.

Man.  O Father, speake yet; no, the mercilesse blowe Hath all bereft speech, motion, sense and life.

Wom.  O beauteous innocence, whitenes ill blackt, How to be made a coale didst thou deserve?

Man.  O reverend wrinckles, well becoming palenesse, Why hath death now lifes colours given thee And mockes thee with the beauties of fresh youth?

Wom.  Why wert thou given me to be tane away So soone, or could not Heaven tell how to punish But first by blessing mee?

Man.  Why where thy years Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely?

Nero.  Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cryes and pitie, with your blood; Mens Eyes[57]—­

Wom.  Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses, And armes that wont to writhe about my necke?

Man.  Where are thy counsels? where thy good example, And that kind roughnes of a Father’s anger?

Wom.  Whom have I now to leane my old age on?

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[s] 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.