Nero. Poppaea, Poppaea, speake, I am not angry; I did not meane to hurt thee; speake, sweet love.
Neoph. She's dead, my Lord.
Nero. Fetch her againe, she shall not die:
Ile ope the Iron gates of hell
And breake the imprison'd shaddowes of the deepe,
And force from death this farre too worthy pray.
She is not dead:
The crimson red that like the morning shone,
When from her windowes (all with Roses strewde)
She peepeth forth, forsakes not yet her cheekes;
Her breath, that like a hony-suckle smelt,
Twining about the prickled Eglintine,
Yet moves her lips; those quicke and piercing eyes,
That did in beautie challenge heaven's eyes,[80]
Yet shine as they were wont. O no, they doe not;
See how they grow obscure. O see, they close
And cease to take or give light to the world.
What starres so ere you are assur'd to grace
The[81] firmament (for, loe, the twinkling fires
Together throng and that cleare milky space,
Of stormes and Phiades and thunder void,
Prepares your roome) do not with wry aspect
Looke on your Nero, who in blood shall mourne
Your lucklesse fate, and many a breathing soule
Send after you to waite upon their Queene.
This shall begin; the rest shall follow after,
And fill the streets with outcryes and with slaughter.
[Exeunt.]
(SCENE 6.)
Enter Seneca with two of his friends.
Seneca. What meanes your mourning, this ungrateful sorrow?
Where are your precepts of Philosophie,
Where our prepared resolution
So many yeeres fore-studied against danger?
To whom is Neroes cruelty unknowne,
Or what remained after mothers blood
But his instructors death? Leave, leave these teares;
Death from me nothing takes but what's a burthen,
A clog to that free sparke of Heavenly fire.
But that in Seneca the which you lov'd,
Which you admir'd, doth and shall still remaine,
Secure of death, untouched of the grave.
1 Friend. Weele not belie our teares; we waile not thee,
It is our selves and our owne losse we grieve:
To thee what losse in such a change can bee?
Vertue is paid her due by death alone.
To our owne losses do we give these teares,
That loose thy love, thy boundlesse knowledge loose,
Loose the unpatternd sample of thy vertue,
Loose whatsoev'r may praise or sorrow move.
In all these losses yet of this we glory,
That 'tis thy happinesse that makes us sorry.
2 Friend. If there be any place for Ghosts of good men,
If (as we have bin long taught) great mens soules
Consume not with their bodies, thou shalt see
(Looking from out the dwellings of the ayre)
True duties to thy memorie perform'd;
Not in the outward pompe of funerall,
But in remembrance of thy deeds and words,
The oft recalling of thy many vertues.
The Tombe that shall th'eternall relickes keepe
Of Seneca shall be his hearers hearts.
Seneca. Be not afraid, my soule; goe cheerefully
To thy owne Heaven, from whence it first let downe.
Thou loathly[82] this imprisoning flesh putst on;
Now, lifted up, thou ravisht shalt behold
The truth of things at which we wonder here,
And foolishly doe wrangle on beneath;
And like a God shalt walk the spacious ayre,
And see what even to conceit's deni'd.
Great soule oth' world, that through the parts defus'd
Of this vast All, guid'st what thou dost informe;
You blessed mindes that from the [S]pheares you move,
Looke on mens actions not with idle eyes,
And Gods we goe to, aid me in this strife
And combat of my flesh that, ending, I
May still shew Seneca and my selfe die.