And had none left him, to restore his honour,
No hope to find a friend, in such a misery;
Then in stept _Pompey_; took his feeble fortune:
Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again,
This was a love to _Cæsar_.

_Sceva._ Give me, hate, Gods.

_Pho._ This _Cæsar_ may account a little wicked,
But yet remember, if thine own hands, Conquerour,
Had fallen upon him, what it had been then?
If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way!
He was thy Son in Law, there to be tainted,
Had been most terrible: let the worst be render'd,
We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent.

_Cæsar._ Oh _Sceva, Sceva_, see that head: see Captains,
The head of godlike _Pompey_.

_Sceva._ He was basely ruin'd,
But let the Gods be griev'd that suffer'd it,
And be you Cæsar--

_Cæsar._ Oh thou Conquerour,
Thou glory of the world once, now the pity:
Thou awe of Nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?
What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluckt thee on
To trust thy sacred life to an _Egyptian_;
The life and light of _Rome_, to a blind stranger,
That honorable war ne'r taught a nobleness,