Dolabella. By her own hands,
That conscious still, commended to her breast
The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;
That subtle adder, that from slime and heat
Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch
Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.
Augustus. Her death commends her more than all her life!
’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,
That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,
Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud