Still dost thou suffer, heaven! will no flame, No heat of sin, make thy just wrath to boil In thy distemper’d bosom, and o’erflow The pitchy blazes of impiety, Kindled beneath thy throne! Still canst thou sleep, Patient, while vice doth make an antick face At thy dread power, and blow dust and smoke Into thy nostrils! Jove! will nothing wake thee? Must vile Sejanus pull thee by the beard, Ere thou wilt open thy black-lidded eye, And look him dead? Well! snore on, dreaming gods, And let this last of that proud giant-race Heave mountain upon mountain, ’gainst your state— Be good unto me, Fortune and you powers, Whom I, expostulating, have profaned; I see what’s equal with a prodigy, A great, a noble Roman, and an honest, Live an old man!— Enter Lepidus. O Marcus Lepidus, When is our turn to bleed? Thyself and I, Without our boast, are almost all the few Left to be honest in these impious times.

Arruntius Monologue from Sejanus His Fall

Rehearse Arruntius's monologue