'Beautiful on her bed Poppaea lay'—
I have begun to write her epitaph.
[He again gazes over parapet, murmuring to himself. Then turning
Ah, blow supreme! Ah, ultimate injury!
I can no longer write: my brain is barren.
My gift, my gift, thou hast left me. Let me die!
Ah! what an artist perishes in me.
[He again returns to parapet, gazing and murmuring, and throws
his tablets from him.
Dead Agrippina rages unappeased.
At night I hear the trailing of a robe,
And the slain woman pauses at my door.
O! she is mightier having drunk of death;
Now hath she haled Poppaea from my arms;
Last doth she quench the holy fire within me——
Enter MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring dark news:
Boadicea the British Queen is risen,
And like a fire is hissing through the isle,
Londinium and Camulodunum
In ashes lie; the loosed barbarians
In madness rage and ravish, murder and burn.
BURRUS. Caesar, despatch.
[Brings NERO paper.
NERO. Ah, this is still the deed
Of Agrippina. Listen! Did ye not hear
The rustle of a robe? [Starting up.
Ah! thou art come!
I—I no order gave! Then did the brine
Drop from thy hair: but now blood falls from thee;
There, where they struck thee, once did I sleep sound.
What shall I do to appease thee? Let me die
Rather than see that wonder on thy face,
And stare on me of terrible surprise.
Thou com'st upon me!