By the too rheumy nature of your eyes,
Divine imperial Nero, and their sunk
Lugubrious aspect—pardon!—but you’re drunk,
Drunk as a lackey when the master’s out!
O kingly tears that down that regal snout
Pour salty love upon a mother’s breast!
So shall her timid doubts be lulled to rest!
(Bustle within as of many rising to their feet.)
They rise! The prologue’s ended—now the play!
(He gets down from urn and goes off toward sea.)