University of Virginia Library

Actus II.

Scena I.

Drusillus and a Roman.
Drusil.
Barb'rous. and horrid! O, the raging Fiend,
When will his black impieties have end?
The great, the wise, the worthy Seneca
Is, by this Bloody Monster made away.
Poor City! whither are thy Founders fled,
To what low distance Regions of the dead,
That at their Country's call they will not rise,
And this ungovern'd Tyrants rage chastise?

Ro.
I saw the best and wisest of mankind,
The Pilot of the will, the guide oth' mind,
Dying and pale; from every gen'rous vein
Base Executioners his life did drain;
By Nero kill'd, by Nero whom he lov'd;
Whose youth by painful studies he improv'd,
And warm'd so long the viper in her brest
That the kind Host was poyson'd by the guest.

Dru.
In vain we mourn: some noble Roman should
Dare to be glorious, dangerously good,
And kill this Tyrant; kill him gorg'd with wine,
Forcing a day, and making black night shine,
Debauch'd, and sordidly ambitious grown,
Midst all his Revels, would the deed were done.

Ro.
Guilt, the mind's wild-fire, lick his Spirits up;
Press him good GODS, press him, until he droop,
Sink, and be damn'd, beneath the lowest Hell:
After his death we may in safety dwell.

Dru.
But, while he lives, no honest Roman may
Pass night in rest, or view one peaceful day.

Exeunt.

Scœ. II.

The Country.
Otho, Poppea, Petronius, Piso.
Petr.
Why should such God-like forms inhabit here,
And bless th' ignoble sort?

Otho
Pr'ythee, no more:
She sha' not go to Court; ther's discord in't.

Pet.
Now by your Lady's lovely eyes I swear,
That Country sounds not half so well to me.
Is it more harmony to hear a Clown
Whistle his dull Tunes, which you construe solemn,
Than see a Lady softly touch her Lute,
And breath an Ayr to the melodious strings?
Her beauty and her voice so ravishing,
That each Spectators Soul is left in doubt
Where first to mount, into the eye or ear.
The Court!
Now, by my Honor, dearer than my life;
And, as I action love, I think the Court
May well be tearmed the Noble Rendesvous
Of Gallant Spirits: 'tis a Circle, Sir,

Oth.
More I'le allow, it is a golden Circle;
But, like the Carthaginian Hero's KING,
It carries poyson: 'tis a fatal Circle;
Upon whose Magick skirts, a thousand Devils,
In Chrystal forms, sit tempting innocence,
And becken early Virtue from its Center.

Piso.
Now, by my life, I think you councel ill.
I view thee, and oth' sudden, somthing calls
Thee Traytor.
Brother, I never lov'd this man; that's all.

Exit.
Ot.
Why should you lose me on a bare suspicion?
The Gods ram curses on me, thick as Hail,
If e're I harbour'd, in this brest, a thought
But what was Noble, of your spotly loves.
I must be bold to say, yo've done me wrong;
And, but I have by Oath inviolable
Sworn you a friendship firm as Destiny,
Protecting you and yours, I should not thus
Tamely put up your angry Brother's terms.

Oth.
Your pardon, generous friend, he was too blame;
Let my repentance set all right again:
Indeed I am asham'd for what was past.

Pet.
See, our contention has disturb'd your Lady,
And call'd the precious dew into her eyes.

Oth.
No more, my dear; nay, if thou lov'st me, cease.

Pet.
I wonder that the Emperor's so long!
I wrote to have him call Otho to Court,
Imploy him there, and come in person hither.

Exeunt.

Scæn. 3.

The Court.
Octavia, Britannicus.
Octa.
Ah, dearest Brother, be not too secure;
Syrens most dreadful are, when they allure:
I dread him most, since your last Noble strife,
And fear he is plotting 'gainst your precious life,
Of which you ought to have a tender care,
Because your Sister claims so deep a share;
For, hear me, Gods, the doom which you decree
This gallant Prince, shall prove my Destiny.

Brit,
Fear not my life; he cannot be so base.
I have some friends, that all his mischiefs trace:
If ought against me move, their care will find.
Some means to let me know what is design'd.

Oct.
HEAV'N ever shield you from his violence:
His kindness, to you, is but meer pretence,
And if he smiles, 'tis at your innocence.
The Chrystal of his eye is clouded 'ore
That his dark thoughts my Genius can't explore.
E're while I met him,
The Fates sit working on his gather'd brows;
Slow steps he takes, and murmurs as he goes,
Starts, and fixt looks upon the Terra's throws.

Brit.
Mild as calm Martyrs, I could death receive;
Two reasons, only, make me wish to live:
Two debts remain to pay, most Nobly due:
Love claims the first, t'other I owe to you.

Oct.
Within your breast does Love chief Regent stand?
I thought that reason there had sole command.

Brit.
Never was heart so pittifully kind,
So capable of Love's impression made;
We me, all Beauties gentle usage find:
The humble, charm; the mighty do invade.
Last Year, unknown to Parthia I did go,
And view'd the Court; beheld the gallant foe
Of ROME, Prince of Alamander, whose great Name
Sound loud, and almost cracks the cheeks of Fame.
Bellona then, as Goddess of our Arms,
I did Adore; but soon felt softer charms:
The curious Prince wirhin my looks did find
Something that wrought upon his Noble mind,
Discours'd me, call'd me friend, and did confess
He never lov'd a man to such excess.
One day, (Oh day most fatal to my rest!)
After a thousand kindnesses exprest,
He took me by the hand, and gently said,
Dear friend, there is a young and noble Maid
That fain would see you. Bowing, I reply'd,
Sir, I am yours, and to your service ty'd.

Oct.
Your story yet has no great cause to fright.

Brit.
At length, we came,; but such a Glorious sight,
Such a bright flux of rayes on tender sense,
Such charming softness, such sweet excellence,
Word may describe, but never can define!
The Sun ne'r saw an object so Divine!
Fancy can't reach it! above fiction fair!
All the sweet lines of Beauty center'd there.
Unlike to Cæsar's was my amorous Doom,,
I came, I saw, but was my self o'recome.
It was his Sister,
Cyara nam'd, that Royal charming Maid;
My soul was rapt with joy, though shook with dread:
So Angels, when they stoop to mortal sight,
Strike us with awe, yet ravish with delight.

Oct.
Why did you not your noble Love declare?
I did; but first committed to her ear
The secret of my birth, which she receiv'd
VVith modest joy, and generously believ'd.
Our Loves too happy were to flourish long,
Frost-nipt i'th' bud, they wither'd as they hung.
Some Roman slave, I know not whom nor where,
Gave the old KING private intelligence;
But the young Prince most watchful, sent me word,
Hastn'd my flight, and would not time afford
To hear my thanks: ungrateful so I came
To ROME, but nourish'd still my former flame.

Enter Cyara, and Silvius, at one door; the Emperour and Plautus at another.
Cya.
Yonder he stands, the GOD's great Master-piece!
Oh, I could ever on that Object gaze,
And lose my Senses in that goodly maze!
VVith gay and vig'rous youth his eyes are Crown'd,
Presence, and Manly graces, all around
His Noble form, do make their bright abode,
Like beams of Lustre circling in a GOD.

Nero.
He dyes, that bold Controller of my will;
He has Oblig'd me so, that I must kill.
VVhy, with dull thoughts, do I my fancy pall?
VVhen I look sad, whole Hecatombs should fall.
Ha! who are they? my fretting blood does rise:
Hands, rest; I'le try to blast him, with my eyes.
Make me Basilisk, but one short hour,
Some GOD, that would be Nero's Emperour.

Plau.
Oh you just Powr's! where is Astrea fled?
Foul vice Triumphs, trampling on Virtues head.
Here Fam'd Democritus his teeth might show,
And Heracletus might his tears bestow.

Nero.
I hate him deadly,
As poverty, diseases, or old age;
For his wish'd death, my Empire I'le engage.
Not Hell, nor Heav'n my fierce resolves shall daunt:
First, I will Act; then I'le think upon't.
Octavia, follow me.

Exit Ambo.
Brit.
What does he mean?
He frowns on me, and smiles upon the Queen.
These ruddy drops some say ill Omens are:
Gods, be my guard; but 'tis not worth my care.
I bleed within; there, there's the mortal wound,
For which no cure no Balsom can be found.
In dreams, Cyara, I behold thy charms,
With fix'd imagination of high pleasure,
Thy beauteous form shall flow into my arms
And I embrace it as a real Treasure.

Exit.
Cya.
How dull this place appears. now he is gone!
Night's Emblem, it bemoans the absent SUN.

Sylvia.
Madam, 'tis fit you should discover now;
Put off the cloud, and fair Cyara show.

Cya.
E're I reveal my self, his love I'le try.

Syl.
You doubt him.

Cya.
No it is curiosity.

Exeunt.
Nero, Octovia.
Ne.
Your Sentence dooms me to be curst, or blest;
Can you deny me? 'tis my first request:
All things are easie to a willing mind:
'Tis quickly done, if you will prove but kind.

Oct.
My soul doth with convulsive horror shake;
Name it again, for sure I did mistake.

Ne.
That you, the Prince, your Brother's blood would spill;
No matter how, so you but swear to kill.
Here with my Dagger, let the deed be done:
You often find him sleeping, and alone.

Oct.
Sleeping! Oh Gods, can You your vengeance keep?
Where is your Thunder? No, 'tis you that sleep:
Sure else, your Justice would his vice confound,
And drive this Monster quick into the ground.
Hell to his soul such impudence has giv'n,
That, he in time, will storm your fort of Heav'n:
In blasphemies his spirits do exhale;
Your high bright walls his Gyant crimes will scale.
Oh, my heart's full.

(Stabs her.)
Ne.
Here's that will give it vent.
So, now go tell the Gods my black intent.
Britannicus his death I will defer;
'Tis pretty well I've made an end of her.
Now I will haste to meet Poppea's arms.
Oh, Love, assist me with thy mighty charms,
And I will raise thy wanton Altars high'r;
Old men, and Eunuchs, shall in heaps expire,
Because uncapable of thy soft fire.
This day my fatal brow no clouds shall wear;
Till I return, Rome lay aside thy fear:
I, and the Gods of VVit, smile once a year.

Exit.
Oct.
O my Britannicus, my Brother!—Oh,
Might I but see thee once yet, ere I go,
And wander in the wide dark dens of death:
But, Oh! my Soul is almost of breath.

Enter Britannicus.
Brit.
He sent me here; for what, I can't devise.

Oct.
Ah me, look here, with pitty glut thy eyes.
Now I am well: for thy sake I would live.
My dear, my gentle Brother, do not grieve.

Brit.
Gods! Gods! but they are deaf, or will not hear.
No hopes of Life? Oh my prophetick fear!
Sigh heart, weep eyes; I draw each Chrystal spring:
But 'tis my blood must be thy offering.

Oct.
Hold, hold; Cyara 'tis Cyara's call:
My share I give to her she claims you all.
Give me your Sword: So now I've lost my fears:
You weep too much, and yet I love those tears.
It was a gen'rous proffer, 'twas indeed:
Upon thy bosom let me rest my head;
'Tis a soft pillow sweetly now I rest,
And sigh my Soul into thy gentle brest.

(Dyes.)
Brit.
Oh stay, my dear, my most lov'd Sister, stay;
But one word more. Her soul is on its way:
She's gone, she's gone; thou flowry sweet farewell.
Oh where, to whom shall I my sorrows tell!
In every grove and melancholly bow're
Thy sad untimely loss I will deplore;
Thy name's dear Character each Tree shall bear;
On every letter I will drop a tear.
How quickly fate our fairest hopes beguiles!
Oh, thou short solace of my many ills,
Adieu! Adieu my Star, my dearest Light!
Now thou art gone, I am all dark, all night:
One lump I grow, and know not how I move;
All sad, and gloomy, as the eyes of Love.
Trust me, thy sweetness I shall ne're forget;
Stiff, with my sorrows, on thy Tomb Ile sit,
Till I, at last, into cold Marble turn,
And, with my Pious figure, grace thy Urn.

Exit.