OTHO. Nothing is left us but to eat and drink.
[Takes bill of fare which the steward passes to him.
NERO. The feast!
[Takes bill of fare from OTHO.
You understand that in the perfect feast
To please the palate only is not art,
But we should minister to the eye and the ear
With colour and with music. Introduce
The embattled oysters with a melody
Of waves that wash a reef—whence do they come?
STEWARD. From Britain, sir.
NERO. Perhaps an angrier chord
Of island surf might be permitted then.
From Britain? Now I see thy uses, Britain.
Britain is justified: she gives us oysters,
And therefore Claudius invaded her.
Sausages upon silver gridirons?
STEWARD. Yes.
NERO. Dormice with poppies and milk honey? There
A slumberous music, heavy lingering chords.
Ah! slices of pomegranate underneath.
Snow—purest snow of course.
STEWARD. 'Twas not forgot.