And fell beneath a brutal soldier's sword.
For what exalted heights of royalty
Might not our Nero's mother once have hoped?
Mishandled first by vulgar sailors' hands,955
Then slain and mangled by the bungling sword,
She lay the victim of her cruel son.
Octavia: Me, too, the tyrant to the world of shades
Is sending. Why delay? Then speed my death,960
For fate hath made me subject to your power.
I pray the heavenly gods—what wouldst thou, fool?