NERO. [Breaking the silence.] His poems!
Why, why, not a line will scan
To the true ear; and what variety,
I ask you all—what flow, or what resource
Is shown? A safe monotony of rhythm!
[He paces to and fro angrily.
TIGELLINUS. Caesar, I cannot speak to such a theme.
Merely Rome's mouthpiece.
NERO. And his gesture, why,
'Tis of the Orient, and gesticulation
More happily were called; never a stillness,
Never repose, but one wild whirl of arms.
TIGELLINUS. I spoke not of fulfilment, but of promise,
The artist's dazzling future.
NERO. A sweet voice!
Rome hath no critics! I would write a play
Lived there a single critic fit to judge it.
Whether a dancing-girl kick high enough—
On this they can pronounce: this is their trade.
With verse upon the stage they cannot cope.
Too well they dine, too heavily, and bear
The undigested peacock to the stalls.
TIGELLINUS. Should Agrippina on a sudden change
Her front, and clasp hands with Britannicus?
NERO. Your words awaken in me a new thirst.
SENECA. Sir, hear the Parthian and the British chiefs.
NERO. [Going to the throne.] Summon them!