Blow, wind, and fan the flames till all’s consumed;
That out of full destruction may arise
The perfect city of my reconstruction,
Beautiful, incombustible, Neronic;
Good out of ill: or rather there’s no ill:
’Tis good’s condition, cradle: ’tis good itself.
But now for Acte, my Acte: poor little Acte!
That bearest all so patiently; the insult
And domineering scorn, which this fine lady,
Whom for her beauty I have made my empress,