SENECA. No! No!
NERO. An artist, whatsoever mood he rouse
In others, should himself be ever still.
Where is a mirror?
SENECA. Sir, one graver word.
To-morrow when you first shall sit in judgment,
And set your name unto the scroll of death——
NERO. [Gazing at himself in mirror.] Ah!
Must I sign death-warrants? Then I wish
This hand had never learned to write.
SENECA. Dear pupil!
AGRIPPINA. Your pupil now the awful purple wears.
You tremble but to grasp the pen! But they
Who dyed it thus, feared not to grip the brand.
NERO. [Again looking in mirror.] It is an act to me unbeautiful.
To scatter joy, not sadness, was I born.
AGRIPPINA. It is an act to you most necessary,
If you would sit secure where I have set you.
Now the light things of boyhood, toys of youth,
Unworthy that stern seat, you must discard.
Acte, the playmate of those careless hours,
Henceforth must be forgotten: you shall wed
A royal consort—young Octavia,
The child of Claudius, of the imperial line.
SENECA. My peaceful counsel you will not forget.
NERO. [Turning to SENECA, affectionately.]
Old friend, I am not like to wade in blood,
Thee at my side! I think upon the dooms
Of Julius, Caius, and Tiberius,
All Emperors—all miserably slain.