And look him dead?  Well! snore on, dreaming gods,
   And let this last of that proud giant-race
   Heave mountain upon mountain, ’gainst your state—–­
   Be good unto me, Fortune and you powers,
   Whom I, expostulating, have profaned;
   I see what’s equal with a prodigy,
   A great, a noble Roman, and an honest,
   Live an old man!—–­
                                                 Enter lepidus. 
                         O Marcus Lepidus,
   When is our turn to bleed?  Thyself and I,
   Without our boast, are almost all the few
   Left to be honest in these impious times.

Lep. 
   What we are left to be, we will be, Lucius;
   Though tyranny did stare as wide as death,
   To fright us from it.

Arr.  ’T hath so on Sabinus.

Lep. 
   I saw him now drawn from the Gemonies,
   And, what increased the direness of the fact,
   His faithful dog, upbraiding all us Romans,
   Never forsook the corps, but, seeing it thrown
   Into the stream, leap’d in, and drown’d with it.

Arr. 
   O act, to be envied him of us men! 
   We are the next the hook lays hold on, Marcus: 
   What are thy arts, good patriot, teach them me,
   That have preserved thy hairs to this white dye,
   And kept so reverend and so dear a head
   Safe on his comely shoulders?

Lep. 
   Arts, Arruntius! 
   None, but the plain and passive fortitude,
   To suffer and be silent; never stretch
   These arms against the torrent; live at home,
   With my own thoughts, and innocence about me,
   Not tempting the wolves’ jaws:  these are my arts.

Arr. 
   I would begin to study ’em, if I thought
   They would secure me.  May I pray to Jove
   In secret and be safe? ay, or aloud,
   With open wishes, so I do not mention
   Tiberius or Sejanus? yes, I must,
   If I speak out.  ’Tis hard that.  May I think,
   And not be rack’d?  What danger is’t to dream,
   Talk in one’s sleep, or cough?  Who knows the law? 
   May I shake my head without a comment? say
   It rains, or it holds up, and not be thrown
   Upon the Gemonies?  These now are things,
   Whereon men’s fortune, yea, their faith depends. 
   Nothing hath privilege ’gainst the violent ear. 
   No place, no day, no hour, we see, is free,
   Not our religious and most sacred times,
   From some one kind of cruelty:  all matter
   Nay, all occasion pleaseth.  Madmen’s rage,
   The idleness of drunkards, women’s nothing,
   Jester’s simplicity, all, all is good
   That can be catcht at. . .Nor is now the event
   Of any person, or for any crime,
   To be expected; for ’tis always one: 
   Death, with some little difference of place,
   Or time——­What’s this?  Prince Nero, guarded! 
                               Enter Laco and Nero, with Guards. 
Lac. 
   On, lictors, keep your way.  My lords, forbear. 
   On pain of Caesar’s wrath, no man attempt
   Speech with the prisoner.