Beside me while I write the letter. Come!
I treasure thee ’bove all I have. Fear not!
[Exeunt Nero and Acte. Poppæa comes out from where she was hid. The fire rages.
Pop. Accursed wretch! I knew it: she is thy wife.
And I thy harlot. Yet I can dissemble—
I can dissemble too—I, sanctified
By long devotion to the Queen of heaven,
Shelter too well thy godless head. I live
To reign when thou art dead. Vain, hideous fool!
Whose heart not murder scathes nor fire can scare,