Gleva: Yes, I'll give up my kingdom here, sacrifice it all, and go to Rome with you. Calpurnius (in a whisper), I'll be your Lydia. Oh, to drive with you on such a night as this, all crowned with roses, from Rome to Baiae on the sea.
Calpurnius: These are dreams.
Gleva (passionately): Why? Why? Are these women in Rome more beautiful than I? Look! (She rises.) I can dress, too, as the Roman women do. I wear the combs you gave me. I don't think they are pretty, but I wear them. See, I wear, too, the sandals, the bracelets.
Calpurnius: No. There are no women in Rome more beautiful than you--but--but----
Gleva (all her passion dying away): You would be ashamed of me.
[Calpurnius is uncomfortable.]
Calpurnius: You would be--unusual. People would turn and stare. Other women would laugh. Some scribbler would write a lampoon. Oh, you are beautiful, but this is your place, not Rome. Each to his own in the end, Gleva. I to Rome--you to your people.
Gleva: My people! Oh, you did right to laugh at the thought of reigning here. What are my people? Slaves for your pleasure. It can't be! You to Rome, the lights, the women--oh, how I hate them! You would not reproach me because my knife hangs idle, had I your Roman women here! Calpurnius, be kind. From the first morning when I saw you in the forest, shining in brass, a god, there has been no kingdom, no people for me but you. I have watched you, learnt from you. Oh! I am of the Romans--I'll----
Calpurnius: Each to his own in the end. That's the law.
Gleva: A bitter, cruel one.