Chapter II: Part 2

_Agr._ What is my purpose?
My life’s one object, my supreme ambition?
Was’t not to raise thee where thou art, and now
Is’t not to keep thee there?

_Ner._ So once I thought.

_Agr._ O think it yet. Look! there is none can love you,
Nero, as I must love you; there’s not one
Can guard you as I can. Have I not proved
My power? While I am by you, it is yours.

_Ner._ Stay then.

_Agr._ O that it might be!

_Ner._ Thou shalt not go.
Resign thy outward power; be in all else 980
As heretofore. Forget what I suspected.
Be still my mother.

_Agr._ Alas!

_Ner._ Yea, I will have it.

_Agr._ It cannot be.

_Ner._ Why not?

_Agr._ Seneca, my son,
Will not permit it.

_Ner._ Who is Seneca
To say me nay?

_Agr._ Unless you join with me
He will o’errule you.

_Ner._ He shall not o’errule me.

_Agr._ For that I’d stay. I would give up all else
To stand by you: ay, and be happy so.

_Ner._ And so it shall be. Have thy private fortune,
Remain in Rome.

_Agr._ But can you trust me, Nero? 990

_Ner._ Nay, I will never more suspect thee. Kiss me.

_Agr._ O, now you are good and kind. Tell me, who was it
Did me this wrong?

_Ner._ It was Domitia told me.
She spied on thee.

_Agr._ My sister! ha! you know not
The grudge between us?

_Ner._ Yes, I know of that.

_Agr._ And not suspect her slander? Did she also
Commit Britannicus?

_Ner._ She cast all blame
On thee.

_Agr._ I feared she might have wronged the boy.

_Ner._ Is he, then, innocent?

_Agr._ I went so far
In sounding him as even to risk my credit. 1000
Let not unjust suspicion add a weight
To the just blame we bear. You must protect him.
Promise me that.

_Ner._ I will ask Seneca.

_Agr._ Forgive, at least, his foolish indiscretion.
He begged me make his peace. Now have I made it?

_Ner._ I’ll think no more of that.

_Agr._ My dearest son,
The joy of a good action will be yours
As well as mine. O, I am happy now—
Indeed, most happy now.

_Ner._ Come then, dear mother.

[_Exeunt._

ACT · III

SCENE · 1

_The same. SENECA._

_SENECA._

Burrus was right. The more I think of it,
The time has come that one or both must go;
So the more dangerous first, then are we quit
At once of all our mischief and disgrace. 1013
’Tis past belief that she who plunged in crime
To enthrone her son should now plot to dethrone him.
There is no bridle for a wicked woman.
Men may despise the venerable path
Of virtue, and refuse the wholesome laws
Of plain philosophy, but still they lean
Towards reason, even in their wickedness. 1020
There’s an accountable consistency
Found in their actions; but if once a woman
Throw off, as men soon do, the first restraints
Of credulous childhood; if her nature lack
Tenderness, modesty, and that respect
To self which sees in self a thing to guard
From passion and caprice, and in the pleasure
Of fitness finds a law,—if she lack that
Or overpass it,—there’s no further bound:
All things are mixed together; virtue, crime, 1030
Wisdom and folly. For they have a spirit
Of infinite wrong genius. Rule, I say,
Such women if you can; rule them with iron.

_Enter Nero._

_NERO._

Good-morrow, Seneca. Thou comest in time;
I need thy counsel.

_Sen._ I am here to give it.

_Ner._ Then tell me: Where I have been lately threatened,
Am I in danger? I will use thy judgment.
Is’t needful for my safety to remove
Britannicus?

_Sen._ I have well considered all.
You must dismiss your mother. 1040

_Ner._ Not so, Seneca.
She now resigns all power and sign of empire,
And is content to live in quiet, retired
With few attendants and contracted state.

_Sen._ She offered terms?

_Ner._ See, since she now concedes
All reasonable claims, my duty towards her
Patches our quarrel.

_Sen._ Whence this newborn trust?

_Ner._ She must remain. What of Britannicus?

_Sen._ He need not trouble you.

_Ner._ So said my mother.
I had thought differently, and even had made
Full preparation for his going hence. 1050
Would’st thou too bid me think there is no danger?

_Sen._ None, if your mother goes.

_Ner._ But nay, she stays.

_Sen._ That makes him dangerous.

_Ner._ Thy reason, Seneca?

_Sen._ I well can guess, Nero, your mother’s vein
With you in private: but ’twould much divert
Your inclination from it, could you know
Her latest way with me.

_Ner._ What hath she said?

_Sen._ Will you now think she hath urged Burrus and me
To set our honoured oaths and firm allegiance
To you aside, as being unjustly sworn; 1060
To undo all she has done, and bring Britannicus
Back to the people as Rome’s rightful heir?

_Ner._ I knew this, Seneca; and if ’twere meant,
Where lies the danger?

_Sen._ True; but then she vows
Plainly that, rather than resign her power,
She will make known her crimes, nor spare herself,
If in the implication of her ruin
She may involve us too. Know you of that?

_Ner._ She could not mean it.

_Sen._ Certainly ’twas in passion
Spoken, and fury: but ’tis such a thing 1070
As might be done in passion.

_Ner._ And what says Burrus?

_Sen._ He too would urge, as I, the Augusta’s exile.

_Ner._ Yet must she stay.

_Sen._ Nay, Nero, she must go.

_Ner._ I bade thee, Seneca, to counsel me:
Call’st thou this counsel? ’Tis in the exigence
Of such affairs that their necessity
Precludes the true decision: this thou’st taught me:
And that the man of counsel is but he
Who handles best the circumstance, most gently
Resolves the knot, not cuts it. In this difficulty
Is there no course? 1081

_Sen._ I go not back from this;
If both remain there’s none.

_Ner._ Is my life threatened?

_Sen._ Ay.

_Ner._ Then Britannicus must go, and shall go,
As first I purposed.

_Sen._ Whither will you send him?

_Ner._ Far out of hearing of his claim. ’Tis not
A trifling matter.

_Sen._ See now to the other extreme
How you o’erleap the mean from wrong to wrong!

_Ner._ Such wrongs the title of my power condones.
Shall I at the outset of a world-wide policy
Stick at a household scruple, and for fear 1090
To do a private wrong forfeit the power
Which makes me Cæsar? See my glory trip
At a little ill because I will not level
My safety with the welfare of the world?

_Sen._ But what you must not, that you cannot do.

_Ner._ Rather what Cæsar must do, that he may.
Rome understands not empire yet: we learned
Something of Herod.

_Sen._ O the injustice, Nero!
The wrong! How! Will you sooner spill a life
So innocent, your creditor in kindness, 1100
Than do disgrace to another, one so guilty
As to deserve, sinking all exigency,
The fearful penalty you now misplace?
Think twice.

_Ner._ Why, if I think of it again,
Is not thy error fourfold more than mine?
This need is granted to all tyrannies,
To slay pretenders, ay, and most of all
Those of the family: but for a mother,
The very Persian or the unrivalled Jew
Would shrink from her dishonour. 1110

_Sen._ (_aside_). What to say?
Being out of kinship ’twere the lesser blot—
Yet there’s his innocence. Necessity
Cannot suborn morality so far
As such confusion,—nor the alternative
May yet be shunned,—and when the best is wrong...

_Ner._ What thinkest thou?

_Sen._ Wait: it shall be my office
To find some better means.

_Ner._ ’Twill be thine office
To show in such a speech as I may make
After his death, that, howsoe’er he died,—
Which you shall know no more than shall my hearers,—
’Twas for the general good. 1121

_Sen._ Be counselled, Nero.
This is not my advice.

_Ner._ Thou offerest none
Which can be taken.

_Sen._ See, I have brought your speech
Touching the Parthian war.

_Ner._ ’Tis long.

_Sen._ The matter
Being very weighty, ’twill be looked for from you
To say thus much: but if it seem too long,
’Tis so composed that with these brackets here,
Skipped as you list, the speech is any length.

_Ner._ I thank thee. I shall need that other speech.

_Sen._ I pray you may not need it. My advice 1130
Is wait.

_Ner._ Is it? Stay—Seneca, dost thou think
My mother was in earnest when she urged
Treason on thee and Burrus? And dost thou think
She fooled me in saying that she made proposal
To Burrus but to sound his honesty?

_Sen._ Eh! with that tale she took you?

_Ner._ Is’t not true?

_Sen._ That true!

_Ner._ She was in earnest though in passion?
Answer me.

_Sen._ Ay, she was.

_Ner._ I pray thee leave me.
I shall not wait. [_Exit Seneca._
I stand alone. Such officers as share 1140
The functions of tyrannic government
Cannot be looked to for a policy
Of personal security; they lack
The motive that abates the fear of crime.
Britannicus must go, and ’tis my hand
Must aim his death. I have a medicine
Which he must drink for me, to save my life.
To-night shall do it. But for my other enemy,
My mother, who with such dissimulation
Won me, spite of foreknowledge of her deeds, 1150
And judgment of her purpose—Ha! indeed;
Seneca’s laughing-stock! Now, what I do
Will much surprise her. If it kill her hope
And prove my temper towards her, ’twill be well.

[_Exit._

SCENE · 2

_Room in Domitia’s house. Enter DOMITIA
and PARIS._

_DOMITIA._

Come hither, Paris!
Thou art my freedman.

_PARIS._

Ay, madam.

_Dom._ Hitherto
Thou hast served me well.

_Par._ Ay, madam.

_Dom._ Would’st thou now
Retrieve thy purchase money?

_Par._ Dost thou say
Thou wilt restore me that for any service
I can perform?

_Dom._ I do.

_Par._ But name the deed. 1160

_Dom._ Dost thou remember Crispus Passienus?

_Par._ Could I forget thy honoured husband, madam,
That was my master?

_Dom._ Paris, thou hast a wife,
And thy wife hath a sister..

_Par._ Ay.

_Dom._ How think’st thou
Thy wife would love her sister, if that sister
Supplanted her with thee, sowed seeds of hate,
Contrived divorce, and when thou wert divorced
Should marry thee herself?

_Par._ Madam, I know
Thy wrong, and share thy hate.

_Dom._ That was not all.

_Par._ Not all?

_Dom._ Nay, listen, Paris: if I forget 1170
My kinship in my hatred, I have cause.
I loved him, and have now no thought in life
But to avenge his murder.

_Par._ Why! can’st thou think?...

_Dom._ Think! do I think? I cannot speak of it.
If ’tis suspicion, be it so—and yet...
Well, thou hast seen my heart—even were my sister
Kind I should not forgive: but seeing she works
Against me still to drive me from the court,
I put my strength with Cæsar, to disbarrass
The palace of this plague. Say wilt thou aid me? 1180

_Par._ The favour Cæsar shows me binds me, lady,
To have no thought but his; and if his mother
Misses his love, ’tis not made up by mine.

_Dom._ I’d have thee on my side whate’er I do.
I have now contrived a scheme which hangs on thee
To bring it home.

_Par._ I will do anything
That will not touch my life.

_Dom._ She is hard to catch.
Late, when she plotted with Britannicus,
Though ’twas as clear as day, when brought to question
She quite out-faced us all.

_Enter Servant._

_SERVANT._

Madam, Seleucus 1190
The astrologer would speak with you.

_Dom._ Admit him. [_Exit Servt._
Paris, I’ll tell thee later of my plans.
Meanwhile keep close with Nero: let me hear
Aught he lets fall that might advance our matter:
Seleucus’ visit is a part of it;
I’ll speak with him alone.

_Par._ Madam, I go. [_Exit._

_Enter Seleucus._

_Dom._ How now, Seleucus? Foiled!

_SELEUCUS._

I warned you, lady,
How impotent and vain an arm hath truth
Unhelped by art.

_Dom._ Thou did’st but well, and now
I shall lean more on thee. Hast thou persuaded 1200
Poppæa of her fortune?

_Sel._ Ay, my lady,
I promised her two Cæsars.

_Dom._ Two! how two?

_Sel._ A secret that of art; our divination
Hath many such. The gods are favourable.

_Dom._ Talk not to me of gods. One was enough;
Yet the other matters not. Two Cæsars indeed!
Most favourable gods!—See, here I give you
Two hundred sesterces: but for that sum
Require another service.

_Sel._ I thank you, madam.

_Dom._ Locusta hath been seen with Nero.

_Sel._ Ah, 1210
How knew you that?

_Dom._ Attend to what I say.
I fear ’tis for Britannicus: the Empress,
Ridding herself, cannot have quitted him.
If ’tis his death is aimed at—and ’tis for thee
To probe and reach the truth—then if ’tis possible
Thou must prevent it. Go, give him a message,
He must not sup with Cæsar if he is bid.
Find you the probabilities, and lay
The warning where is need.

_Sel._ ’Twere a good office, lady.

_Dom._ Go quickly then. If thou do well in this,
I will reward thee well. 1221

_Sel._ I will deserve it. [_Exeunt._

SCENE · 3

_The room in Otho’s house. Enter POPPÆA
and MAID._

_MAID._

Madam, the litter waits.

_POPPÆA._

Give me my mirror, miss.
Why, see how slovenly thou’st done my hair;
’Tis out already.

_Maid._ With your pardon, madam,
’Tis very well. Nay, ’tis as firm as a rock.
You look your best to-night.

_Pop._ Where is the flower
I gave thee?

_Maid._ Here, my lady.

_Pop._ Put it in.
There, there. Ay, that will do. Now where’s my cloak? [_Exit Maid._

_Enter Otho._

_OTHO._

So then you are going?

_Pop._ Yes, I go alone, 1230
Since you will not come with me.

_Oth._ You are always free
To have your way; but when your wish is mine,
It is twice yours. This time you know ’tis not:
And were I used to set constraint upon you,
Could it be said Otho e’er crossed his wife
With a command, it should be now: I’d say
This I forbid.

_Pop._ And why?

_Oth._ I entreat you, dearest.

_Pop._ I am pledged to go.

_Oth._ Go not.

_Pop._ There’s now no choice.

_Oth._ A light excuse would serve: a sudden sickness,
A cold, a headache. Do not go.

_Pop._ Why, look! 1240
If you are not jealous, Otho! jealous, jealous.
You see not straight.

_Oth._ I see you smile on Cæsar.

_Pop._ And think you, then, I must have turned my love
Where I have smiled? that I would play you false
For the pleasure of it?

_Oth._ Why then sup with Cæsar?

_Pop._ A trifle hangs upon him I would wear,—
The world.

_Oth._ So dazzled by the imperial splendour!
Think: to be Cæsar’s mistress for a year
Is not to rule the world.

_Pop._ I will be Cæsar’s wife.

_Oth._ Ah! look you then so high? 1250

_Pop._ Who shall be called my rival?

_Oth._ Cæsar’s wife.

_Pop._ She hinders not.

_Oth._ Oh, thou would’st never dare it,
Did’st thou not love him.

_Pop._ What should I not dare?

_Oth._ Hast thou considered well the ambiguous style
Thou goest to take, and yet determined?

_Pop._ Ay.

_Oth._ ’Tis death, ’tis death. I speak now but for thee:
Not for myself. The cup Octavia drinks
To quit thy place thou too wilt come to taste.

_Pop._ That is my risk. The sport were tame without it:
The game can boast a sting. 1260

_Oth._ Weigh well the danger:
Think of it thus; to live on a caprice
Whose jealousy is death; where for the reason
One seems to love thee will be ten to hate thee;
Where not to be beforehand with a treachery
Is to be victim.

_Pop._ I can steer my way.

_Oth._ And for this desperate venture wilt cast off
My love, our love?

_Pop._ What is love?

_Oth._ Art thou Poppæa?
Wer’t any else but thou that questioned thus,
My answer then were ready: I should say
Ask of Poppæa, ’tis the thing she knows; 1270
Ask Otho’s wife what love is, she can tell.
And thou to ask! as if ’twere some strange matter
Wide of experience, and to ask of me
Who won thee for my teacher!

_Pop._ ’Tis true the impeachment
I make of love is that he hath exhausted
His treasure rather than denied us aught.

_Oth._ Exhausted love! how mean you?

_Pop._ See! I am made
Of other stuff and passions besides love.
You cannot wish that all my life should move
Pent in this narrow circle, day by day 1280
Keeping the pretty game up which I learned
When I was green: that I should ne’er do else
Than this one thing, and that so constantly
That even the habit and the practice of it
Are scarce employment; that I should grow grey,
And see the wide and seasonable field
Of life’s exertion and excitement fallow
With this one weed of love?

_Oth._ A weed, you say!

_Pop._ I have other motions in me. I’ve an itch
Men call ambition, and I see a prize 1290
Looks worth the having.

_Oth._ ’Tis not worth the having.

_Pop._ Why, what were I to thee, could’st thou be Cæsar?

_Oth._ Even all thou art; I have no itch to rule
Merely to see that game played out, and cry
At the end—what is ambition?

_Pop._ It hath no end.

_Oth._ ’Tis plain love hath an end.

_Pop._ Nay, as I love thee,
I still shall love thee. Only, Otho....

_Oth._ What?

_Pop._ I thought your eye was open to perceive
The grandeur of my scheme.

_Oth._ Thou wert mistaken.

_Pop._ Upon what falls to-night, let us decide. 1300
I have no secrets from you: if I prosper,
Desert me if you will, but blame me not:
For dared I combat Cæsar’s inclination
There were as much to lose. The thing I do
Will be your safety.

_Oth._ Rather would I die,
Ay, rather far that thou should’st die than do
This baseness willingly.

_Pop._ Nay, speak not so.
I shall do nothing base.

_Oth._ Thou must succeed.
Only before thou goest I’ll kiss thee once. [_Kisses Pop._
Otho’s last kiss. Farewell. 1310

_Pop._ Good night. I go.
Lesbia, my cloak! I shall have news ere morn. [_Exit._

_Oth._ Gone! With a grace
As firm, as pleasant, gay and self-possessed
As that with which she hath come a thousand times
To meet me, kiss me, and call me hers, she goes
To change her husband .. gone! and not a sign
To show that leaving me was losing aught!
Fool that I was! To the soul I knew her vain,
Self-seeking, light, petulant at the breath
Of contradiction, and yet I trusted. What, 1320
Asks she, is love. Ay, what? I love my dog;
He is devoted beyond reason, pitiful
In his dependence; he will scarce reproach me
With some short wondering sorrow, if I strike him—
I love my horse; he bears me willingly,
Answering spiritedly; with all his strength
Generous and gentle. But woman, if man love her,—
Seeing she is less devoted than the hound,
Less noble than the horse,—’tis that we deem,
That being human she can gauge the worth 1330
Of our intensity, and in kind somewhat
Repay it: ’tis a delusion; spite of shew,
She hath not in her heart that which her eyes
Fondly declare. There is no passion possible
Which beauty can interpret or soft speech
Express, which was not mine; ay, by that title
O’er and o’er; yet I think no dog in Rome
Would leave the meanest slave that fed him once,
As hath this woman left the man that loved her.

[_Knocking._

_Enter Lucan and Petronius._

_LUCAN._

Ha! here he is. We have come to fetch you, Otho.

_Oth._ I do not go to-night. 1341

_PETRONIUS._

Not go! What is’t, man?—ill?

_Oth._ My wife has gone, therefore I do not go:—
You see the matter, maybe have foreseen it;
I was too blind. Spare me your condolence;
I do not wish even sympathy. You know
I loved her, but ’tis over. Let me give you
Such knowledge as I wish my friends to have,
Else might they mistake somewhat. See! she is gone
To-night against my wish: ’tis nothing more: 1350
But this will lead to much. I let my house;
Sell you my wine, Petronius, if you wish it,
And take—I shall not want for interest—
The Lusitanian proconsulate.

_Luc._ You go from Rome?

_Oth._ I do.

_Petr._ Break not with Cæsar.

_Oth._ I’ll take employment.

_Petr._ Jove! I think you’re wise,
Otho; you’re wise. I’ve half a mind myself
To give my friends the slip. But as it is,
Well .. come, I’ll take the wine; what is your price?

_Oth._ The price I gave. 1360

_Petr._ A bargain. I shall send for it.

_Luc._ (_to Otho_). Otho, I will not go. Although thy wrong
Cannot be stayed, yet would I rather die
Than sit and smile on it.

_Oth._ I thank thee, Lucan.
I’d ask thee rather look upon the matter
As on a thing of course: I think it is.
Go, take no note of it.

_Luc._ If ’tis thy wish.

_Oth._ It is. Good night.

_Luc. and Petr._ Good night. [_Exeunt._

SCENE · 4

_A room in the Palace. Enter AGRIPPINA._

_AGRIPPINA._

Thus must it be then. I must be cast out,
Turned from the palace, lodged in a private house,
Retired, reduced, forgotten, like any relic 1370
Of barbarous royalty, caged out of reach
Of good or ill; my state just so much show
As has no meaning. Now may some god of mischief
Dare set me in the roll of puny spirits.
Ah!—Hath this my seal, seemeth it? O may my foes
Be fooled so far to think that guile will stay
First in catastrophe. Nay, if I crouch,
’Tis but to plant a foot whence I may bound
With braver spring.—I am clear; the right’s my hope.
Right against blood hath still been honourable. 1380
Men love the name of Brutus. The first Brutus
Slew his own son; the last his Cæsar. Ha!
’Tis madness; nay, that’s not my thought, not that.
’Twould fright the world that there should be a woman
Who could slay Cæsar and son in one. Nay, nay,
That lies beyond all fate. Yet, short of that,—
O blood, thou sacrament and bond of nature,
Look to the strain: summon thy best allies,
Thy yearnings and thy shudderings, thy terrors
And dreams of dread; marshal the myriad fingers
Of scorn and hate: else, O thy rottenness 1391
Will out. Indeed I think thou’rt a weak thing,
Bred of opinion; when I would have trusted thee,
Hath not that other rivet of thy chain
Snapped at the mutual end? Thy boasted anchor
Drags on the bottom, and my ship drifts on
To the rocks, to the rocks: missing that hold, the sense
Is dizzy with madness; ay, and whither I go
Is hidden; nor aught I know, save that the future,
Whate’er it be, I shall do much to make. 1400

_Enter Britannicus._

Ah! ah! ’tis thee.
Speak softly, for these walls have ears.

_BRITANNICUS._

Thou thinkest
That Cæsar watches me.

_Agr._ To-day thy spies
Are mine, but must not hear.

_Br._ Hast thou seen Burrus?

_Agr._ He is thine enemy: no hope from him.

_Br._ I would not have this spoken of as my hope.

_Agr._ True, boy. I mentioned not thy name, and Nero,
Being now persuaded thou art innocent,
Forgives thee. Let the risk I ran for thee
Be earnest of more good. 1410

_Br._ I thank thee for it.

_Agr._ ’Tis nothing, this. Thou yet shalt reign.

_Br._ I pray thee
Draw me not into thy deep-plotted schemes
That rush on guilt. If I have hope or wish,
’Tis but to live till the divorce be writ
’Twixt Cæsar and my sister: that is not long
To wait; and then her exile, which must follow,
If I may share, I think some days of peace
May be in store for both. That is my hope,
Not Rome, nor empire, but some tranquil spot
Where innocence may dwell, and be allowed 1420
To be its own protection.

_Agr._ Are you that fool?

_Br._ I would none doubted it.

_Agr._ Can it be possible
That thou, who in thy veins hast the best blood
Of Rome, should’st own so beggarly a spirit,
And being the heir of all the world should’st wish
Only to hide thy claim, so thou may’st live
The life which broken-hearted slaves, and men
Diseased and aged scarce prize?

_Br._ I hear, I hear,
And am not shamed.

_Agr._ Nay, then I have more to say.

_Br._ I too might say somewhat. Is it not strange,
Thou being a lady, should’st possess a heart 1431
So fond of wrong, and blood, and wrathful deeds?

_Agr._ Ah, ah! Thou thinkest that thou know’st me rightly,
And yet would’st dare to taunt me, and to thwart
My stablished purpose? Child, I say, remember
The deeds thou castest in my teeth, and think
Whether it were not much better now at last
To side with me, and take the help I proffer.
I have sworn to set thee on the throne; think twice
Ere thou oppose my will.

_Br._ Did’st thou not say 1440
Thou had’st persuaded Nero of my innocence?

_Agr._ Say I was wrong.

_Br._ Nay, thou wert right in that,
Wrong now returning on disclaimed ambition.

_Agr._ Art thou content to see thyself deposed,
Thy sister thus dishonoured....

_Br._ Say no more.

_Agr._ Consider!

_Br._ Nay, I’ll not consider.

_Agr._ Now
This once again I bid thee, child, consider.
Doubt not my power.

_Br._ No more. I will not join thee.

_Agr._ Then hear me, child. Whether thou join or not,
Whether thou wilt be Cæsar, or refusest, 1450
Thou shalt be Cæsar. If thou wilt not plot,
It shall be plotted for thee: in my hands
I hold thy life, and guard it but for this,
To make thee Cæsar. Ay, and if thou shrinkest
When the day comes, I’ll have a doll made like thee;
My men shall carry it about, and style it
Britannicus, and shout to it as to Cæsar.
I say thou shalt be Cæsar, think it o’er.
Dare not refuse me: ’tis not yet too late;
To-morrow I will speak with thee again. 1460
Now to thy better thought. [_Exit._

_Br._ O murderess!
And for this last turn must I thank my folly,
That partly trusted her. Now would to heaven,
If live I must, that I might change my lot
With any man soe’er, though he be chosen
And picked for misery. Surely there’s none
In all the empire can show cause to stand
And weigh his woe with mine. Find me the man,
If such there be, that hath an only sister
’Spoused to a murderer and adulterer, 1470
Who hates her virtue, since it shames pretext
To cast her off: or, if such man be found,
Hath he for mother one that slew his father,
And threats him with like death? or if all this
Be matched in one, hath he no remedy?
Is his speech treason? Is his silence treason?
Is he quite friendless, helpless?
Forbidden to budge a foot from the dread focus
Of crime and anguish? ’Mongst his lesser wrongs
Hath he this brag, that he hath been robbed, as I,
Of the empire of the world? O happy hinds, 1481
Who toil under clear skies, and for complaint
Discuss long hours, low wages, meagre food,
Hard beds and scanty covering: ye who trail
A pike in German swamps, or shield your heads
On Asian sands, I’d welcome all your griefs
So I might taste the common nameless joys
Which ye light-heartedly so lightly prize,
And know not what a text for happiness
Lies in a thoughtless laugh: what long, impassable,
Unmeasured gulfs of joy sunder it off 1491
From my heart-stifling woe.

_Enter Octavia._

Thou art welcome, sister.

_OCTAVIA._

Brother, a request you must grant.

_Br._ Anything,
Dearest, to thee.

_Oct._ Sup not to-night with Cæsar.

_Br._ I must. Yet what’s thy reason? Thou art moved
Strangely beyond the matter.

_Oct._ Read this paper.

_Br._ (_reads_). _Britannicus, sup not to-day with Cæsar._
How came you by it?

_Oct._ ’Tis from Fulvia,
The maid that loves Seleucus; whence ’tis his.

_Br._ Most like; I know the turbaned mountebank
Keeps an old kindness for me. Yet nay, nay— 1500
If this should now be found—nay, he’s too shrewd
To put himself in writing.

_Oct._ He might dare
With Fulvia.

_Br._ Nay. I cannot think ’tis his.
And were it, what’s his credit? I do not trust
These fellows far. They trade in mystery,
And love to thicken water,—and if there be
A plot to poison me, to-day’s occasion
Offers no easier vantage than to-morrow’s.
My safety lies elsewhere.

_Oct._ O do not go.

_Br._ Fear not, Octavia, I am very careful, 1510
And eat but sparingly of any dish,
Nor aught but what goes round. To stay away
Might show suspicion, and could serve no end.

_Oct._ Brother, be warned, go not to-night; to-morrow
We may learn more. I beg...

_Br._ Nay, urge me not,
Since with this warning I am doubly safe.

_Oct._ Oh, I dread Nero’s anger; ’tis most certain
That ill will come of it.

_Br._ Nay, fear him not.
Let us go sup. I will use all precaution, 1519
Thou may’st be sure, since for thy sake I do it:
And while thou livest I shall have both reason
And wish to live. Have care, too, for thyself;
I think thy peril is no less than mine. [_Exeunt._

SCENE · 5

_Supper-room in the Palace. All are reclined at two
tables, thus_:

_Agrippina_, _Nero_, _Poppæa_.| _A gentm._, _Octavia_, _A lady_.
_Tigellinus_, _A gentm._ | _Britannicus_, _Paris_.
_A lady_, _Domitia._ |
_Petronius_, _Lucan._ |

_Waiters, tasters, etc. Some are talking._

_NERO._

I will propose a question to the table:
Which of the arts is greatest? Lucan, these sausages
Are something new: try them.

_POPPÆA._

You question, Cæsar,
Which of the arts is greatest? I would answer
The one which Cæsar honours.

_TIGELLINUS._

But if Cæsar
Should honour more than one?

_PETRONIUS._

The sausages 1529
Are good enough. As for the arts, here’s Lucan
Can speak for poetry.

_Ner._ If any man
Could prove one art beyond contention first,
I would reward him excellently. With me
To know the best and follow it are one:
Success being easy in all, my difficulty
Lies in distraction: show me then the best,
I’ll perfect that.

_Pop._ What! Cæsar give up singing?

_Ner._ For better things.

_Tig._ Which be the arts?

_Petr._ (_to servants_). Here, vermin,
This wine’s half-way to vinegar.

_Ner._ Who will name
The arts? There’s sculpture, painting, poetry, 1540
Singing..

_PARIS._

And acting.

_Ner._ Well, what more?

_Tig._ Horse-racing.

_Pop._ (_across_). Ruling I think’s an art.

_AGRIPPINA_ (_across_).

And making love.

_Ner._ ’Tis of the fine arts we would speak.
(_To servants_) Ho! fellows,
Pour out the wine! Ah, here’s a lovely mullet.
Has this been tasted?

_TASTER._

Ay, Cæsar. ’Tis stuffed with truffles.

_Ner_. A mullet stuffed with truffles. Now, Poppæa,
Will not this please?

_Pop._ I thank you.—(_aside_) Prithee, bid
Lucan to speak for poetry.

_BRITANNICUS_ (_to servant_).

Nay, the mullet.

_Ner._ Lucan, what say you for your art?

_LUCAN._

I claim
The first place for it, and I say ’tis proved 1550
Nobler than any plastic art in this;
It needs not tools nor gross material,
And hath twin doors to the mind, both eye and ear.
Nay, even of drama Aristotle held,
Though a good play must act well, that ’tis perfect
Without the stage: which shows that poetry
Stains not her excellence by being kind
To those encumbrances, which, in my judgment,
Are pushed to fetter fancy.—Then hath our art
Such strong and universal mastery 1560
O’er heart and mind, that here ’tis only music
Competes, and she is second far in scope,
Directness, and distinction.

_Ner._ You think that?

_Luc._ Ay, Cæsar.

_Ner._ Do you! you who have ever been
More gracious to my voice than to my pen!
Am I a better singer then than poet,
Think you?

_Luc._ Nay, Cæsar; but....

_Ner._ Ha! then you are envious.
You would not have me write because, forsooth,
You write yourself. Now, by the god, I swear
Thou shalt not publish nor recite a verse 1570
Within my empire till I give thee leave.
One man to keep the muses to himself!
Monstrous!

_Pop._ And serve him right.

_Luc._ (_aside_). Monstrous indeed!

_Ner._ (_to servants_). Heat me some wine.
Come, lords, ye drink not. Eh! what have we here?

_Servant._ Cherubim, Cæsar.

_Ner._ What is Cherubim?

_Petr._ The gods of the Jews.

_Ner._ Hoo! let us eat their gods.
They are much like pheasants.

_Servt._ ’Tis a pheasant, Cæsar,
And stuffed with woodcock.

_Petr._ Cæsar, there’s one art
Has not been mentioned; though I think at table
It should not be passed o’er. 1581

_Ner._ What art is that?

_Petr._ I shall contend it is the first of all.

_Ner._ Name it.

_Petr._ It hath no name. It scarce exists.
I think the goddess never walked the earth.

_Par._ Ranks she with poetry?

_Petr._ I avouch above.

_Par._ Cæsar, if this be proved, thou must rescind
Thy poet’s sentence.

_Ner._ Let him prove it first.

_Petr._ I see in other arts some wit or fancy
Extrinsical to nature. I can find
No ground of need in any, save maybe 1590
In architecture,—which ranks not so well
As to be mentioned by you.—Now, if I
Show you an art whose matter every day
Is life’s necessity, which gives more scope
To skill than any other, which delights
Among the senses one which the other arts
Wholly neglect, would you not say this art
Hath the first claim? See, I could live without
The joys of harmony, colour, or form,
But without this it were impossible 1600
To outlast the week.

_Par._ Oh! Cookery.

_Several._ Cookery, cookery!

_Petr._ There’s the mistake I gird at. None of you
But thinks this art I speak of, which includes
Pleasures of entertainment, ease and elegance,
The mind’s best recreation, the satisfaction
Of the body’s nearest needs, the preservation
Of health, and with all this, the gratifying
Of that one sense, which above all the senses
Is subtle, difficult, discerning, ticklish,
And most importunate,—that this great art 1610
Is a cook’s province.

_Ner._ True, Petronius, true;
There’s room for bettering these things.

_Petr._ Why, wine—
Just think of wine. A hundred vintages
Lie in my cellar; by my taste I tell
Each one; are eye or ear so delicate?

_Par._ Here’s half a case already.

_Petr._ Then again,
Look on this side. You bid your friends to supper:
That is a promise; and hath all your life
An hour more suitable for skilful kindness? 1619
They come perturbed, fatigued, hungry and thirsty;
Nature exhausts them for you, drains them empty
To take all kinds of pleasure; their grated nerves
Ask music, their wearied limbs soft cushioned couches,
Their harassed mind wise cheerful conversation,
Their body’s appetites fawn at the word
Of food and wine: and yet we see these things,
Which should be studied, ordered, suited, measured,
All jumbled in confusion, till a feast,
Instead of relaxation and renewal,
Becomes, I say, for body and for mind 1630
The worst discomfort and the stiffest trial
That life can show.

_Par._ Bravo! bravo!

_Ner._ For one,
I am converted. Thou shalt be henceforth
Arbiter of my table.

_Br._ (_to servt._) ’Tis boiling hot;
Taste it.

_Ner._ (_to Petron._) Accept you the office?

_Petr._ This would make me
A Cæsar above Cæsar.

_Ner._ In the province
Of imperial æsthetics.

_Servt. to Brit._ Pardon, your highness,
I will add water to it: ’tis yet unmixed.

[_They pour in the poison._

_Petr._ ’Twill be a tyranny. For look, I hold
Man’s stomach is not to be trifled with. 1640
Not only should your table give delight
Even to the ravishment of every palate,
But since the end and final cause of food
Is not to breed diseases in the flesh,
Nor heat the spirits more than they can bear,
But rather to build up and comfort health,
I’d order first that there be served at table
Nothing but what is wholesome.

_Br._ (_after drinking nubile Petr. speaks_). Ah!

[_Falls back._

_Oct._ The wine, the wine!

_Br._ Ah! [_Dies._

_Oct._ He is dead. O dead! O dead! 1650

_Lucan, Petronius and Paris go to Britannicus.
Domitia follows.—All rising._

_Agr._ What is this?

_Ner._ He hath a fit.

_Petr._ He doth not breathe.

_Oct._ (_has come round to front_). Alas, alas! my brother; he is
dead.

_Ner._ Nay, sit you down; look not aghast, I say.
He hath the falling sickness, and will oft
Faint on a sudden, as ye see. He lies
An hour as dead, and then awakes again
With nought amiss. Best take him out in quiet.
(_To servants._) Carry him from the room.

_Luc._ Lift you his feet, Petronius.
We two will take him.

_Ner._ Let him be, I say. 1660
His servants will attend him. Return to table:
We cannot spare you.

_Par._ (_to Oct._) Honoured lady, be hopeful:
For hath your noble brother e’er been taken
Like this, he may recover.

_Oct._ (_to Par._) Never—
Never! O never! he is dead! I knew it! [_Going._

_Ner._ (_to Oct._) Heh, sit you down. What could you do, I pray?
He will come round.

_Oct._ Oh! I will follow him.

[_Exit with servants who are carrying Brit._

_Petr._ (_to Par._) How happened it?

_Par._ (_to Petr._) He drank a draught of wine
Fresh mixed, and then fell back just as you saw.
What think you?

_Petr._ (_to Par._) Think you ’twas aught? 1670

_Par._ (_to Luc._) What think you?

_Luc._ Impossible.

_Dom._ (_aside_). He is poisoned. Yet my sister
Was nothing privy to it. She is pale.

_Ner._ Come, sit you down, aunt: come, Petronius,
Lucan, be seated. Let not the horrid sight
Unwhet your appetites.

_Petr._ (_to Luc._) That was no fit. [_To Par._
He is dead. What if ’twere poison? Where’s the drink?

_Par._ ’Twas hurried out.

_Luc._ O God!

_Ner._ (_to servts._) Serve out the wine.
We all must need a bumper; ’tis most natural.
I have known the mere revulsion to provoke
In a strong man a seizure similar 1680
To that which frighted him.

_Par._ (_aside_). ’Twould not amaze me,
Had he such drink to cheer him. [_All refuse drink._

_Pop._ (_to Nero_). I will not drink.

_Ner._ From my cup.

_Pop._ Well, from thine. [_Drinks._

_Luc._ (_aside_). He is self-betrayed.

_Ner._ Where were we?

_Petr._ At the point where Cæsar made me
Arbiter of his table. I shall ask
To inaugurate my office.

_Ner._ Do so, Petronius.

_Petr._ Then know you are all dismissed. Let all go home,
And for the prince’s safety offer up [_All rise._
What vows ye may unto the gods. Myself,
I set the example, and go first. Come, Lucan. [_Going._

_Ner._ Eh! eh! yet thus ’tis best. Good night, Petronius, 1691
Thou hast spoken well; may the gods hear thy prayers.
I wish you all good night.

_In disorder of going curtain falls._

ACT · IV

SCENE · 1

_The same. A public place. THRASEA and PRISCUS meeting._

_PRISCUS._

I was coming to your house.

_THRASEA._

’Tis well we meet.
How went it in the senate?

_Pr._ As you said.
A message read from Nero.

_Thr._ Seneca?

_Pr._ No doubt.

_Thr._ And in what terms touched he the murder?

_Pr._ With double tongue, as being an ill which none,
And Cæsar least, could have desired; and yet
A good none should lament.

_Thr._ He is very prompt. 1700
What glozing for the hasty burial?

_Pr._ The speech was thus; that ’twas the better custom
Of simple times to shun all vain parade:
That private grief was mocked by frigid pomp,
And public business and quiet thereby
Idly disturbed;—_Then for myself_, it ran,
_To have lost the aid and comfort of a brother
Demands your sympathy. Of your goodwill
I make no doubt; the more that my misfortune
Throws me upon it, seeing that all my hopes 1710
Now anchor wholly on the commonwealth.
Wherefore to you, my lords, and to the people,
I look so much the more for maintenance
And favour, since I now am left alone
Of all my family, to bear the cares
Your empire throws upon me._

_Thr._ This was well.

_Pr._ Then were there gifts decreed to all his friends.

_Thr._ Hush-money. Did none murmur?

_Pr._ There were none
So much as frowned.

_Thr._ See, Lucan! let us speak with him.

_Enter Lucan._

If now he be not shaken, I mistake 1720
His temper.

_LUCAN._

Good day, Thrasea.

_Thr._ A dull morning.

_Luc._ Comest thou from the house?

_Thr._ Nay, more’s the pity.
There was a distribution, as I hear,
To friends of order. Say, how didst thou fare?

_Luc._ In many things, Thrasea, I hold not with thee,
Nor will pretend that I can see in virtue
A self-sufficiency invulnerable
Against the crime of others. I believe
The world is wronged, and burn to avenge the wrong.
But, as an honest man, I take thy hand. 1730

_Thr._ I looked for this, Lucan, and take thy hand.
Frivolity and crime are most unworthy
Of thy companionship.

_Luc._ My uncle’s hope
Tainted my judgment. I have been blind, and wronged thee.

_Thr._ Where I am misconceived I blame myself.

_Luc._ Hear me abjure.

_Thr._ Spare words. There’s no more fear
Thou wilt be duped. Cæsar, in slaying his brother,
Has doffed the mask.

_Luc._ The heart of Rome must swell
To put the monster down.

_Thr._ We have our part:
But in the sorry tragedy he makes 1740
We can be but spectators. On his stage
There’s nought but folly. Come thou home with me:
I’ll show thee how we may regard this play,
Take note of all the actors, and watch the end.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE · 2

_The room in Domitia’s house, Enter DOMITIA and
PARIS._

_DOMITIA._

’Twas a most shameful deed; we take upon us
A just revenge.

_PARIS._

But ’tis the general thought
That Nero killed his brother; that his mother
Had no hand in it, rather would have saved him.

_Dom._ ’Twas her intrigues determined him, and they
Who egg on others are the real movers. 1750
Now will he hate her more a thousand-fold
For driving him to crime. She will not ’scape:
Our plot will stand.

_Par._ Is it thy scheme to push
Silana’s accusation?

_Dom._ Ay, ’tis that.
We shall accuse the Augusta of intent
To marry Plautus, to assert his claim,
And thus assail the throne.

_Par._ How wilt thou broach it?

_Dom._ We have fixed to-night. Cæsar will dine at home,
And with convenient company. ’Tis agreed
When he’s well drunk, you enter, announce the plot
As freshly hatched, and so unmask the affair 1761
That he shall be persuaded.

_Par._ How glibly, madam,
Speech can glide o’er the hitch; I must feel flattered
That just in the awkward place I am shovelled in
To carry it through, who have no heart in the matter.

_Dom._ No heart! had you no ear then to my promise?

_Par._ ’Tis little for the risk. But what of Burrus?

_Dom._ Seeing that without his name the plot were weak,
And that to avouch his treason would discredit it,
We say he is suspected.

_Par._ ’Twill not stand. 1770
We lack confederates.

_Dom._ You forget Poppæa.
I have sent for her to try her. If I mistake not,
’Tis she that knocks. Get you behind the door,
And watch what passes. There! [_Paris hides._

_Enter Poppæa._

Now this is kind.

_POPPÆA._

I am bounden, lady, to wait on Cæsar’s aunt.

_Dom._ I count the days, Poppæa, when you yourself
Will call me aunt: and in that happy hope
I’ll stand thy friend.

_Pop._ I shall have full need, madam,
Of all good offices.

_Dom._ Maybe: my sister
Is an unscrupulous enemy. Beware! 1780
She stole from me a husband, and will now
Keep you from winning one.

_Pop._ She doth not hide
Her disapproval of my love to Cæsar,
And thus appears my foe; but in truth, madam,
Half of my heart sides with her, and the fear
Lest the full passion which I bear your nephew
May shame his rank, conquers my love so far
That oft I doubt if I have a heart to bear
The honour I have dreamed of, or a love
Worthy of him, since it so much can fear. 1790

_Dom._ Tut, tut! if you’re the woman that I think
You’re just what I would wish his wife to be.
Wronged in his marriage, he since hath wronged himself:
Octavia is a ninny, but his low
And last intrigues have scandalized the court:
Our family is hurt. You are his equal
In wit and manners, and can hold your place;
Nor in opposing you is it his good
His mother weighs: rather it suits her schemes
To have his wife a fool. ’Tis not unknown 1800
What lately she had dared to keep her place,
But that Britannicus’ so sudden death
Blasted her plots: now in her constant project
Your marriage threatens her.

_Pop._ The more I see
It blackens more. May I dare ask you, madam,
To tell your sister that I willingly
Retire, if she prevail upon her son
Quite to forget his love and put me by?

_Dom._ Which side to take? that must you first determine;
’Tis Cæsar or his mother. I supposed 1810
’Twas him you loved, not her. Now should I tell you
That she is deeply pledged to take his life,
And seize the empire...

_Pop._ Oh! what wicked crimes!
Impossible!

_Dom._ But if I prove it to you?

_Pop._ I could not hear it.

_Dom._ Nay, but if ’tis true,
Side you with us who hinder it, or her
Who pushes it?

_Pop._ O madam, ’tis incredible.

_Dom._ Ay, and to-night, as Nero sits at supper,
When Paris brings the news he’ll not believe it.
But then a word from you might turn the scale, 1820
And rouse his better judgment.

_Pop._ The very thought
That her destruction were my safety, madam,
Would hold my tongue. Indeed you have wronged me much,
Telling me this.

_Dom._ Why, such things you will hear.

_Pop._ Nay, let me go.

_Dom._ Ay, go, but think upon it.

_Pop._ Farewell. [_Exit._

_Dom._ (_sola_). Was I mistaken?

_Par._ (_re-entering_). My mind is changed.

_Dom._ How now! what say you?

_Par._ Madam, the plot will stand.

_Dom._ Did you hear all?

_Par._ And saw.

_Dom._ All that compunction...

_Par._ Ay, be sure of it.
Why she and I could carry anything. 1830
She’s a born actress: we must keep good friends
With her.

_Dom._ Then this is well; go learn your part.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE · 3

_At the tomb of Britannicus, Enter OCTAVIA and
ATTENDANTS._

_OCTAVIA._

Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet,
Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour,
While yet your tender, fleshly hues remember
His fair young prime; then wither, droop, and die,
And with your changèd tissues paint my grief.
Nay, let those old wreaths lie, the shrivelled petals
Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down
About the steps: we mock death being trim. 1840
Now here another. Ah! see, set it you:
I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses
Weave a fit emblem—how they wait for noon
That comes to kill their promise, and the crown
Is but a mock one?

_ATTENDANT._

’Tis a good custom, lady,
To honour thus the tombs of those we love.

_Oct._ Custom! Is this a custom? Then I think
I wrong my sorrow in such common shows.

_Att._ Nay, it doth ease affliction to be busy;
And grief, that cannot reckon with a mystery, 1850
Is comforted by trifles.

_Oct._ Why, thou’rt wrong;
It brings no comfort.

_Att._ And ’tis kindly done
To hide the fresh-cut stone. Death is hard featured
In a new-built tomb.

_Oct._ O, hold thy peace! I see
Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas,
I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said,
Think not our gracious deed finds its account
In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven
More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed
The more abundantly that they are crimes 1860
In the sight of him that slew him.

_Att._ Speak not so,
Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught.

_Oct._ What would’st thou have me?
Knowing my sorrow thou should’st rather wonder,
And think it well that I speak sense at all.

_Att._ Let not such passion kill thy courage, lady;
The greatest die. There stands the tomb of Julius,
Whose mighty march was no less foully stayed
At noon of power: there is Augustus’ tomb,
Wherein so many lie...

_Oct._ Why, what are they
To me? Is’t not my brother that is dead? 1870
Whose life was mine, as needful to my day
As is the sun; as natural, old a want
To very life as is the bathing air
That my blood battens on. Take these away
And give him back; it then were likelier
I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine.
He is gone! O miserably, suddenly,
For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither?

_Att._ ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries
Wreaths such as ours. 1880

_Oct._ Let us begone in haste.

_Att._ Alas! she hath seen us, lady: ’tis too late.

_Oct._ I’ll but salute her. I pray you all keep back,
Nor speak with her attendants.

_Enter Agrippina, Fulvia, and Attendants._

_AGRIPPINA._

My dearest daughter,
I have longed for this embrace. Where else but here
Beside this sacred tomb should we have met?
I should have been much with thee in thy sorrow,
But am forbidden the palace.

_Oct._ I must thank thee
Doing this grace to my unhappy brother.
The gods grant thee kind messages. Farewell.

_Agr._ Nay, go not thus. See how I hang these garlands.

_Oct._ Not there, nay, not on mine; not there! thy grief 1891
Must own a lower place; mix not its show
With mine. He was my brother.

_Agr._ Thou art right.
Set them here, Fulvia. If my heart is wronged,
’Tis done unwittingly; thou canst not know.

_Oct._ I leave thee.

_Agr._ Grant one word.

_Oct._ Would’st thou be kind
’Twill be but one.

_Agr._ ’Tis this then: I am kind.
In sum ’twas this I came to say.

_Oct._ If hither
Thou didst but come to seek me, know I had chosen
The hour to be alone.

_Agr._ My dearest child, 1900
My injured child! See, I would have thee trust
My friendship. ’Twas my constant, loving wish
To right thy brother’s wrongs, and now my heart
Is wholly turned on thee.

_Oct._ Think not of me.
Am I not past all help? nor do I crave
The help that leads to death.

_Agr._ O never dream
That I had hand in that accursèd deed.
The terror of it rather hath possessed
My purpose with the justice of revenge. 1909

_Oct._ I cannot thank thee, and from thy messengers
Have gathered all. There’s nought to say. Farewell.

_Agr._ Thou dost not know Poppæa marries Cæsar.

_Oct._ Ay.

_Agr._ Thou consentest?

_Oct._ Say, would my refusal
Or my consent be counted?

_Agr._ It shall not be.

_Oct._ It matters not.

_Agr._ Thou lookest for divorce?

_Oct._ Can I remain his wife who killed my brother?

_Agr._ Thou art the last branch of the house of Claudius,
And if thou wilt forget the hurt now done thee,
May’st yet retrieve thy blood; but being too proud,
Wilt more dishonour what thou seemest to honour.
If now thou’rt brave, and wilt join hands with me...

_Oct._ O never, never! was it not that hand
That.... O my brother, with thy trait’rous foe
Make peace, and at thy tomb! Ask clemency
Of him that murdered thee! O never.—
Thou most dear shade, who wast too mild and kind,
If death seal not thy spiritual sense
To my loud sorrow, hear me! O thou my joy,
By whom the bitterness of life, my lot
Of horror, was quite sweetened,—cruelly, 1930
Most cruelly slain. Ay, I will all forget
When he who wrought this thing can bring again
Out of thy cold unmotionable ashes
The well-compacted body and grace of life.
Ay, if he make one smile of thine, although
It last no time, I will forget: but else,
I say, the thing he hath done, since so ’tis done
That he cannot undo it, he must o’er-do
Ere I forget.

_Agr._ I will be yet thy friend—

[_Exit Oct. with Attendants._

There comes no help from her. Maybe her grief
Is yet too fresh. Come, Fulvia, let us go. 1941
She would not speak with me. Now on all hands
Thou seest I am set aside, and count for nought.
Yet not for this am I a whit discouraged;
I shall rise yet. Am I not Agrippina? [_Exeunt._

SCENE · 4

_A room in the Palace. Enter through a door from the
supper-room NERO and POPPÆA._

_NERO._

Now ere they follow, Poppæa, ease my heart,
And tell me thy request.

_POPPÆA._

Thou’lt grant it me?

_Ner._ Whate’er it be, if thou wilt come to Baiæ.

_Pop._ I’ll have it without bargain or not at all.

_Ner._ I grant it: ask. 1950