Beneath the refuge of a lowly roof!
For lofty homes, to fame and fortune known,
By storms are blasted and by fate o'erthrown!
[Enter Octavia in the custody of the palace guards, who are dragging her roughly out into the street.]
Octavia: Oh, whither do ye hurry me? What fate
Has that vile tyrant or his queen ordained?900
Does she, subdued and softened by my woes,
Grant me to live in exile? Or, if not,
If she intends to crown my sufferings
With death, why does her savage heart begrudge