We since became the slaves to one man’s lusts;
   And now to many:  every minist’ring spy
   That will accuse and swear, is lord of you,
   Of me, of all our fortunes and our lives. 
   Our looks are call’d to question, and our words,
   How innocent soever, are made crimes;
   We shall not shortly dare to tell our dreams,
   Or think, but ‘twill be treason.  Sab.  Tyrants’ arts
   Are to give flatterers grace; accusers, power;
   That those may seem to kill whom they devour.

Enter Cordus and Arruntius.

   Now, good Cremutius Cordus

Cor. [salutes Sabinus] Hail to your lordship!

Nat. [whispers Latiaris.] Who’s that salutes your cousin?

Lat. 
   ’Tis one Cordus,
   A gentleman of Rome:  one that has writ
   Annals of late, they say, and very well.

Nat.  Annals! of what times?

Lat. 
   I think of Pompey’s,
   And Caius Caesar’s; and so down to these.

Nat. 
   How stands he affected to the present state! 
   Is he or Drusian, or Germanic,
   Or ours, or neutral?

Lat.  I know him not so far.

Nat. 
   Those times are somewhat queasy to be touch’d. 
   Have you or seen, or heard part of his work?

Lat.  Not I; he means they shall be public shortly.

Nat.  O, Cordus do you call him?

Lat.  Ay. [Exeunt Natta and Satrius

Sab. 
   But these our times
   Are not the same, Arruntius.

Arr. 
   Times! the men,
   The men are not the same:  ’tis we are base,
   Poor, and degenerate from the exalted strain
   Of our great fathers.  Where is now the soul
   Of god-like Cato? he, that durst be good,
   When Caesar durst be evil; and had power,
   As not to live his slave, to die his master? 
   Or where’s the constant Brutus, that being proof
   Against all charm of benefits, did strike
   So brave a blow into the monster’s heart
   That sought unkindly to captive his country? 
   O, they are fled the light!  Those mighty spirits
   Lie raked up with their ashes in their urns,
   And not a spark of their eternal fire
   Glows in a present bosom.  All’s but blaze,
   Flashes and smoke, wherewith we labour so,
   There’s nothing Roman in us; nothing good,
   Gallant, or great:  ’tis true that Cordus says,
   “Brave Cassius was the last of all that race.”

Drusus passes over the stage, attended by Haterius, etc.

Sab.  Stand by! lord Drusus.

Hat.  The emperor’s son! give place.

Sil.  I like the prince well.

Arr. 
   A riotous youth;
   There’s little hope of him.

Sab. 
   That fault his age
   Will, as it grows, correct.  Methinks he bears
   Himself each day more nobly than other;
   And wins no less on men’s affections,
   Than doth his father lose.  Believe me,
   I love him; And chiefly for opposing to Sejanus.