POPPAEA. Give me the glass again: beautiful yet!
This face can still endure the sunset glow,
No need is there for me to sue the shadow,
Perfect out of the glory I am going.
MYRRHA. Lady, the mood will pass: still you are young.
POPPAEA. Why comes not Nero near me?
O he loathes
Sickness or sadness or the touch of trouble,
MYRRHA. Nay, lady; hither he is riding fast,
In fury spurring from Campania,
And trouble upon trouble falls on him—
Misfortune follows him like a faithful hound.
POPPAEA. I snared him, Myrrha, once; let him flutter away!
But to relinquish the wide earth at last,
And flit a faint thing by a shadowy river,
Or yearning without blood upon the bank——
The loneliness of death! To go to strangers—
Into a world of whispers——
[Looking at and lifting her hair.
And this hair
Rolling about me like a lighted sea
Which was my glory and the theme of the earth,
Look! Must this go? The grave shall have these eyes
Which were the bliss of burning Emperors.
After what time, what labour the high gods
Builded the body of this beauty up!
Now at a whim they shatter it! More light!
I'll catch the last of the sun.
Enter SLAVE
SLAVE. Mistress, below
The lady Acte stands and asks to see you.
POPPAEA. Come to inspect me fading: I fear not.
Even a woman's eyes I need not shun.
Bring her. [Exit SLAVE.
Now, Myrrha, watch her hungering eyes.