_ A feared Prince hath oft his death desir'd.

_Cae._ A Prince not fear'd hath oft his wrong conspir'de.

_Ag._ No guard so sure, no forte so strong doth proue,
No such defence, as is the peoples loue.

_Caes._ Nought more vnsure more weak, more like the winde,
Then _Peoples_ fauor still to chaunge enclinde.

_Ag._ Good Gods! what loue to gracious Prince men beare!

_Caes._ What honor to the Prince that is seuere!

_Ag._ Nought more diuine then is _Benignitie_.

_Cae._ Nought likes the _Gods_ as doth _Seueritie_.

_Ag._ _Gods_ all forgiue.

_Cae._ On faults they paines do laie.

_Ag._ And giue their goods.

_Cae._ Oft times they take away.

_Ag._ They wreake them not, o _Caesar_, at each time
That by our sinnes they are to wrathe prouok'd.
Neither must you (beleue, I humblie praie)
Your victorie with crueltie defile.
The Gods it gaue, it must not be abus'd,
But to the good of all men mildlie vs'd,
And they be thank'd: that hauing giu'n you grace
To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie masse,
They may hence-forward hold it still in rest,
All scattred power vnited in one brest.

_Cae._ But what is he, that breathles comes so fast,
Approaching vs, and going in such hast?

_Ag._ He semes affraid: and vnder his arme I
(But much I erre) a bloudie sworde espie.

_Caes._ I long to vnderstand what it may be.

_Ag._ He hither comes: it's best we stay and see.

_Dirce._ What good God now my voice will reenforce,
That tell I may to rocks, and hilles, and woods,
To waues of sea, which dash vpon the shore,
To earth, to heau'n, the woefull newes I bring?

_Ag._ What sodaine chaunce thee towards vs hath brought?

_Dir._ A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau'ns!
O Gods too pittiles!

_Caes._ What monstrous happ
Wilt thou recount?

_Dir._ Alas too hard mishapp!
When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld,
My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering quake,
I senceles stand, my brest with tempest tost
Killes in my throte my wordes, ere fully borne.
Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say,
This murthering sword hath made the man away.

_Caes._ Alas my heart doth cleaue, pittie me rackes,
My breast doth pant to heare this dolefull tale.
Is _Antonie_ then dead? To death, alas!
I am the cause despaire him so compelld.
But souldiour of his death the maner showe,
And how he did th