[He throws her from him—snatches his dagger.
POPPAEA. Kill me then if you will.
Here—here! I will not flinch, so I die true.
You'll not suspect my corpse.
OTHO. It has been planned,
Thought out, and timed—for in his deepest plot
Our Nero has an eye for drama still.
He hath imagined that which now we act.
POPPAEA. Kill me—I love you! Ere you strike, one kiss.
OTHO. Ah! [Recoiling.]
POPPAEA. But one kiss—a kiss of olden days,
When we two were most happy: Caesar was not,
And you had laughed at him! A harp-player,
But not my man, my Otho! Think you I
Who have had these arms about me, and these lips
Burn up my own, could languish for a mime?
I am a child—I have done wrong—forgive it—
I sighed for thy advancement—speak to me!
Now slap my hands or send me to my bed,
I am a baby in these deep affairs.
OTHO. Go not to Baiae then: depart with me
To Lusitania; words I'll count no more,
But deeds—to Lusitania, come with me.
POPPAEA. Is it wise to disobey—is it wise, I ask?
Set me aside, be mindful of yourself.
OTHO. So you'll not come?
POPPAEA. For you alone I linger.
I'll tarry but a little while behind you,
And when I come, I'll greet you full of riches.