This Seneca, of which that I devise, Because Nero had of him suchë dread, For he from vices would him aye chastise Discreetly, as by word, and not by deed; “Sir,” he would say, “an emperor must need Be virtuous, and hatë tyranny.” For which he made him in a bath to bleed On both his armës, till he mustë die.
This Nero had eke of a custumance In youth against his master for to rise; Which afterward he thought a great grievánce; Therefore he made him dien in this wise. But natheless this Seneca the wise Chose in a bath to die in this mannére, Rather than have another tormentise; And thus hath Nero slain his master dear.
Now fell it so, that Fortune list no longer The highë pride of Nero to cherice; For though he werë strong, yet was she stronger. She thoughtë thus; “By God, I am too nice To set a man, that is full fill’d of vice, In high degree, and emperor him call! By God, out of his seat I will him trice! When he least weeneth, soonest shall he fall.”
The people rose upon him on a night, For his default; and when he it espied, Out of his doors anon he hath him dight Alone, and where he ween’d t’ have been allied, He knocked fast, and aye the more he cried The faster shuttë they their doorës all; Then wist he well he had himself misgied, And went his way, no longer durst he call.
The people cried and rumbled up and down, That with his earës heard he how they said; “Where is this falsë tyrant, this Neroún?” For fear almost out of his wit he braid, And to his goddës piteously he pray’d For succour, but it mightë not betide; For dread of this he thoughtë that died, And ran into a garden him to hide.
And in this garden found he churlës tway, That sattë by a firë great and red; And to these churlës two he gan to pray To slay him, and to girden off his head, That to his body, when that he were dead, Were no despitë done for his defame. Himself he slew, he coud no better rede; Of which Fortúnë laugh’d and haddë game.