[Gazing at her face in mirror.
Ah! this left eyebrow—who?
Who painted this?
MAID. [Trembling.] I, madam.
POPPAEA. You are young:
Else I would have you stripped and lashed till blood
Flew from you.
MAID. Mercy!
POPPAEA. Call old Lydia.
Lydia, this eyebrow—the old touch.
LYDIA. My hands
Tremble, but I'll essay.
POPPAEA. [Gazing in mirror.] So—that is well.
Children, when there shall come, and come there must,
The smallest marring wrinkle on this face,
And come there must—our bodies fall like flowers,
This face shall feel the ruin of the rose—
When time, howe'er light, shall touch this cheek,
Then quick farewell! Listen, I will not live
Less lovely, nor this cruel beauty lose,
And I perforce grow kind: I'll not survive
The deep delicious poison of a smile
Nor mortal music of the sighing bosom
That slowly overcomes the fainting brain.
It shall not dawdle downward to the grave;
I'll pass upon the instant of perfection.
No woman shall behold Poppaea fade:
And now to Baiae!
MYRRHA. Thence the Emperor
Hath sent three messengers already.
POPPAEA. Ah!
Blue Baiae, warm beside a sparkling sea
Where I will win young Nero—and the world!