Where the hot Sun may emulate his Vertues,
And draw another _Pompey_ from his ashes
Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the Worthies.

_Ptol._ We will do all.

_Cæs._ You have rob'd him of those tears
His Kindred and his Friends kept sacred for him;
The Virgins of their Funeral Lamentations:
And that kind Earth that thought to cover him,
(His Countries Earth) will cry out 'gainst your Cruelty,
And weep unto the Ocean for revenge,
Till _Nilus_ raise his seven heads and devour ye;
My grief has stopt the rest: when _Pompey_ liv'd
He us'd you nobly, now he is dead use him so. [_Exit._

_Ptol._ Now, where's your confidence? your aim (_Photinus_)
The Oracles, and fair Favours from the Conquerour
You rung into mine Ears? how stand I now?
You see the tempest of his stern displeasure,
The death of him you urged a Sacrifice
To stop his Rage, presaging a full ruine;
Where are your Counsels now?

_Acho._ I told you, Sir,
(And told the truth) what danger would flye after;
And though an Enemy, I satisfied you
He was a _Roman_, and the top of Honour;
And howsoever this might please Great _Cæsar_,
I told ye that the foulness of his Death,