(_he reades_,)

"_You Enthrall Powers which[23] the wide Fortunes doon
Of Empyre-crown'd seaven-Mountaine-seated Rome,
Full blowne Inspire me with_ Machlaean[24] _rage
That I may bellow out_ Romes _Prentisage;
As[25] when the_ Menades _do fill their Drums
And crooked hornes with_ Mimalonean _hummes
And_ Evion[26] _do Ingeminate around,
Which reparable Eccho doth resound_."

How doest thou like our Muses paines, _Cornutus_?

_Corn_. The verses have more in them than I see:
Your work, my Lord, I doubt will be too long.

_Nero_. Too long?

_Tigell_. Too long?

_Corn_. I, if you write the deedes of all the _Romans_.
How many Bookes thinke you t'include it in?

_Nero_. I thinke to write about foure hundred Bookes.

_Corn_. Four hundred! Why, my Lord, they'le nere be read.[27]

_Nero_. Hah!

_Tigell_. Why, he whom you esteeme so much, _Crisippus_,