_Nero_. And why was't pitie, sirrah, _Pisoe_ died?

_Yong_. My Lord, 'twas pitie he deserv'd to die.

_Poppaea_. How much this youth my _Otho_ doth resemble; (_aside_.)
_Otho_ my first, my best love who is now
(Under pretext of governing) exyl'd
To _Lucitania_, honourably banish't.

_Nero_. Well, if you be so passionate,
Ile make you spend your pitie on your Prince
And good men, not on traytors.

_Yong_. The Gods forbid my Prince should pitie need.
Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirre
Oth' fraile and weake condition of our kind,
Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterday
The world but _Caesar_ could shew nothing higher.
Besides, some vertues and some worth he had,
That might excuse my pitie to an end
So cruell and unripe.

_Poppaea_. I know not how this stranger moves my mind. (_Aside_.)
His face me thinkes is not like other mens,
Nor do they speake thus. Oh, his words invade
My weakned senses and overcome my heart.

_Nero_. Your pitie shewes your favour and your will,
Which side you are inclinde too, had you[79] power:
You can but pitie, else should _Caesar_ feare.