_THRASEA._
’Tis well we meet.
How went it in the senate?
_Pr._ As you said.
A message read from Nero.
_Thr._ Seneca?
_Pr._ No doubt.
_Thr._ And in what terms touched he the murder?
_Pr._ With double tongue, as being an ill which none,
And Cæsar least, could have desired; and yet
A good none should lament.
_Thr._ He is very prompt. 1700
What glozing for the hasty burial?
_Pr._ The speech was thus; that ’twas the better custom
Of simple times to shun all vain parade:
That private grief was mocked by frigid pomp,
And public business and quiet thereby
Idly disturbed;—_Then for myself_, it ran,
_To have lost the aid and comfort of a brother
Demands your sympathy. Of your goodwill
I make no doubt; the more that my misfortune
Throws me upon it, seeing that all my hopes 1710
Now anchor wholly on the commonwealth.
Wherefore to you, my lords, and to the people,
I look so much the more for maintenance
And favour, since I now am left alone
Of all my family, to bear the cares
Your empire throws upon me._
_Thr._ This was well.
_Pr._ Then were there gifts decreed to all his friends.
_Thr._ Hush-money. Did none murmur?
_Pr._ There were none
So much as frowned.
_Thr._ See, Lucan! let us speak with him.
_Enter Lucan._
If now he be not shaken, I mistake 1720
His temper.
_LUCAN._
Good day, Thrasea.
_Thr._ A dull morning.
_Luc._ Comest thou from the house?
_Thr._ Nay, more’s the pity.
There was a distribution, as I hear,
To friends of order. Say, how didst thou fare?
_Luc._ In many things, Thrasea, I hold not with thee,
Nor will pretend that I can see in virtue
A self-sufficiency invulnerable
Against the crime of others. I believe
The world is wronged, and burn to avenge the wrong.
But, as an honest man, I take thy hand. 1730
_Thr._ I looked for this, Lucan, and take thy hand.
Frivolity and crime are most unworthy
Of thy companionship.
_Luc._ My uncle’s hope
Tainted my judgment. I have been blind, and wronged thee.
_Thr._ Where I am misconceived I blame myself.
_Luc._ Hear me abjure.
_Thr._ Spare words. There’s no more fear
Thou wilt be duped. Cæsar, in slaying his brother,
Has doffed the mask.
_Luc._ The heart of Rome must swell
To put the monster down.
_Thr._ We have our part:
But in the sorry tragedy he makes 1740
We can be but spectators. On his stage
There’s nought but folly. Come thou home with me:
I’ll show thee how we may regard this play,
Take note of all the actors, and watch the end.
[_Exeunt._