_Epaphr_. They had beene stones whom that could not have mov'd.

_Nero_. Did not my voice hold out well to the end,
And serv'd me afterwards afresh to sing with?

_Neoph_. We know _Appollo_ cannot match your voice.

_Epaphr_. By Jove! I thinke you are the God himselfe
Come from above to shew your hidden arts
And fill us men with wonder of your skill.

_Nero_. Nay, faith, speake truely, doe not flatter me;
I know you need not; flattery's but where
Desert is meane.

_Epaphr_. I sweare by thee, O _Caesar_,
Then whom no power of heaven I honour more,
No mortall Voice can passe or equall thine.

_Nero_. They tell of _Orpheus_, when he tooke his Lute
And moov'd the noble Ivory with his touch,
_Hebrus_ stood still, _Pangea_ bow'd his head,
_Ossa_ then first shooke off his snowe and came
To listen to the moovings of his song;
The gentle _Popler_ tooke the baye along,
And call'd the _Pyne_ downe from his Mountaine seate;
The _Virgine Bay_, although the Arts she hates
Oth' _Delphick_ God, was with his voice orecome;
He his twice-lost _Euridice_ bewailes
And _Proserpines_ vaine gifts, and makes the shores