SCENE · 3
At the tomb of Britannicus, Enter OCTAVIA and ATTENDANTS.
OCTAVIA.
Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet,
Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour,
While yet your tender, fleshly hues remember
His fair young prime; then wither, droop, and die,
And with your changèd tissues paint my grief.
Nay, let those old wreaths lie, the shrivelled petals