Whom no man wooes, whose heart, a muted lyre,

Pines with a wild but unconfessed desire

For him who—never understands, my son!

I’ll be all fountain—kill that other one!

Nero

That other one—

Agrippina

Oh, like a wind of Spring

Wooing the sere grave of a buried thing,

Your summons came! Such happy tendrils creep