At that word Nero advanced, with his ill-favoured face and shrill voice. “It is very well,” says he, “for a prince’s favourite or tutor to be wiser than his master; but let him manage that advantage then with respect, and not like a rash and insolent fool make proclamation presently to the world, that he’s the wiser of the two. While Seneca kept himself within those bounds, I lodged him in my bosom, and the love I had for that man was the glory of my government; but when he came to publish once (what he should have dissembled or concealed) that it was not Nero but Seneca that ruled the empire, nothing less than his blood could make satisfaction for so intolerable a scandal, and from that hour I resolved his ruin. And I had rather suffer what I do a hundred times over than entertain a favourite that should raise his credit upon my dishonour. Whether I have reason on my side or no, I appeal to all this princely assembly: draw near, I beseech ye, as many as are here, and speak freely, my royal brethren, Did ye ever suffer any favourite to escape unpunished, that had the impudence to write [I and my king] to make a stale of majesty, and to publish himself a better statesman than his master?” “No, no,” they cried out all with one voice, “it never was, and never shall be endured, while the world lasts: for we have left our successors under an oath to have a care on’t. ’Tis true, a wise counsellor at a prince’s elbow is a treasure, and ought to be so esteemed while he makes it his business to cry up the abilities and justice of his sovereign; but in the instant that his vanity transports him to the contrary, away with him to the dogs, and down with him, for there’s no enduring of it.”