_Scevin_. Why should I feare to tell them?
Why, is he not a Parricide a Player?
Nay, _Lucan_, is he not thine Enemie?
Hate not the Heavens as well as men to see
That condemn'd head? And you, O righteous Gods,
Whither so ere you now are fled and will
No more looke downe upon th'oppressed Earth;
O severe anger of the highest Gods
And thou, sterne power to whom the Greekes assigne
Scourges and swords to punish proud mens wrongs,
If you be more then names found out to awe us
And that we doe not vainely build you alters,
Aid that iust arme that's bent to execute
What you should doe.

_Lucan_. Stay, y'are carried too much away, _Scevinus_.

_Scevin_. Why, what will you say for him? hath[12] he not
Sought to suppresse your Poem, to bereave
That honour every tongue in duty paid it.
Nay, what can you say for him, hath he not
Broacht his owne wives (a chast wives) breast and torne
With Scithian hands his Mothers bowels up?
The inhospitable _Caucasus_ is milde;
The More, that in the boyling desert seekes
With blood of strangers to imbrue his iawes,
Upbraides the Roman now with barbarousnesse.

_Lucan_. You are to earnest:
I neither can nor will I speake for him;