Britannicus must go, and ’tis my hand
Must aim his death. I have a medicine
Which he must drink for me, to save my life.
To-night shall do it. But for my other enemy,
My mother, who with such dissimulation
Won me, spite of foreknowledge of her deeds,
And judgment of her purpose—Ha! indeed;
Seneca’s laughing-stock! Now, what I do
Will much surprise her. If it kill her hope
And prove my temper towards her, ’twill be well.