University of Virginia Library

Actus III.

Scena I.

Britannicus with a Boy.
Brit.
What is this Earth to me? why do I stay,
Since thou, my Joy, my dear Octavia,
Art ravish'd hence? To Parthia I will,
And in thy presence, fair Cyara, dye:
My only comforts on thy truth depend;
If thou art chang'd, my grief shall have an end.
Go Sing the Song without.

Song.
[Boy.]

Chorus.
The grave, the lovly grave will bring us ease,
There we shall sweetly sleep in downy peace;
There no distractions, nor jealousies ce,
But all from inord'nate passions are free:
The cold Tomb is free from hot love and desire;
It has ashes good store, but admits of no fire:
There men do never groan, nor women cry,
But all things, hush'd, in solemn silence lie.

Bri.
Enough, enough. Oh, my sick heart, not yet!
Break, break, for shame, let Nature have her debt.

Cyara, Sylvius.
Cya.
Withdraw good Sylvius. How sad he looks!
Was ever man so goodly? Oh my heart,
Bear up! and yet I dare not speak to him.
If there be any charms in womens tongues,
If there be any words that can infuse
Soft love into a bosom, and create
A gentle passion, good Heav'n grant it me.
Sir, may I interrupt, without offence,
Your serious thoughts? I've something to relate
Which is your near concern.

Brit.
Mine, pretty Sir?
Say on, I hear you. What should his business be?

Cya.
'Tis from a Lady, who made me her Agent,
A sorry one, I fear, and much unable
To tell what she commanded me; a story
So lamentable, that I cannot think on't,
But straight my eyes o'reflow with tears: pardon me,
Only a little respite, I'le go on.

Brit.
Thou raisest somthing in me, which as yet
I cannot give a name to. What can this mean?

Cya.
CYARA, SIR, the Parthian Princess.

Brit.
Ha!
Com'st thou from her? a thousand blessings on thee.

Cya.
A thousand curses, rather, for my news.
My name's Coralbo, her, unhappy kinsman,
To my poor faith she did the mighty honour
Of telling the sad stories of your Loves.
It was her chance, a dismall chance indeed,
That nay you fled, as she was sitting at
The Palace window, striking of her Lute,
Thoughtful, and Virgin-like, alone, to cast
Her eye upon your person; strait she blush'd,
Wondring to see you in that equipage;
But soon her Brother did unriddle all:
Amazement seiz'd her first; but when the Prince
Was gone, she loos'd the rains, grief had full stopt:
She trembled, fetch'd heart-breaking sighs,
As if her eyes were springs; she made complaints
So languishing, and with so sad an accent,
I wonder that it kill'd her not till now.

Brit.
I hope you come not to abuse me.
By Heav'n, if you do—

Cya.
Indeed I do not:
Let that convince you, if you know her hand.
I find he's Noble, his looks are chang'd oth' sudden;
I fear I've gone too far. How do you, Sir?

Brit.
Well, Boy. O GODS! Devils! Hell, Heaven and Earth!
Reads.

If in the other world, I can behold ought here, it
will be you, pray love my memory: 'twill be a satisfaction
above the thoughts of Paradise, to your dying Cyara.

I feel a mortal trembling shot a long
My Arteries! I'm cold! Octavia! Cyara! Oh!

(Falls)
Cya.
Help, help; my Lord, Cyara lives; return.
What have I done? upon thy dying lips
I'le print my soul, but I'le bring back thy life.
Fool that I was, for a fancy, thus
To play away that Pearl, for which I would
Have sold my breath, my vital Spirits, my all.
O, he returns. Cyara is not dead:
Look up, my Lord; do you not know this face?

Brit.
Cyara! Heav'ns, 'tis she! Thou charming fair,
How am I ravish'd with thy Glorious presence!
O, who would live on Earth, sultry and hot,
Under a load of care, did he once taste
The pleasures of these cool immortal shades?
O the refreshing sweets which the winds blow
From ever-budding flowers eternal Spring!

Cya.
Where, Sir?

Brit.
Why, here, in blest Elizium.

Cya.
O he is lost, distracted!

Brit.
Look, look, my dear, pr'y thee let's walk along,
The grass does shine with more Emerald green,
Each purling brook like liquid plate appears,
And every pebble seems a Diamond;
Fall burnish'd trees with fruit of massy Gold!
Upon whose boughs, all fair and Heav'nly forms
Sit sweetly warbling to their Loves below.
See yonder's Octavia, my Sister, look,
Pale and forlorn, in a close gloomy,
Her Ayry substance thus I will condense
And to squeeze water, 'cause I cannot weep.

Cya.
Ah Prince, Cyara lives, and I am she.

Brit.
Thou art a lying Boy: O Gods, my head!

Cya.
Do you not know me, Sir? Look wistly on me.

Brit.
Cyara's Picture! just such charming eyes!
Such snowy hands, such lips, such winning smiles!
Such tenderness! such was her every Grace!
But Oh! you told a false, a fatal tale,
The accent of thy voice is different:
She could not lye, for she was all perfection:
All beauty sickned when she left the world.
Cyara, Oh thou fair one! Glorious Saint,
Thou could'st not dye for me, desertless me.

Cya.
She is not dead, but lives, and loves you, Sir.

Brit.
Thou dost associate with Lawyers sure,
And Travellers.

Cya.
Who I, Sir? why?

Brit.
Because
Thou lyest extreamly, Boy: No, she is dead;
The canopy of Heav'n is hung with Sable;
The Sun, like a great mourner, drives her Hearse,
Wrap'd round with clouds; each Star withdraws
His Golden head, and burns within his socket
The whole cope is dark, black, dismal,
And mourns the sudden loss of fair Cyara.
Ha! shough; yonder flyes a night-Raven
In each black eye there rowls a pound of Jet.
See how he fans, with his huge wicker wings
The dusky Ayr. Come, boy, be gone
I'le save thee, though I dye me self: go in:
Run, run, I say, I'le fetch my Bow and shoot him.

Exeunt.
Scæn. The Country.
Petronius, Poppea. Piso, over-hearing.
Pop.
I must not hear you, Sir.

Petr.
Can you despise
A flame, whose matchless splendor drowns the Stars,
And lustre vies with the great eye of Day?
O, scrupulous Virtue, art thou grown so cold
That the reflected beams of doubled Honours,
Beating upon thee with incessant Glories,
Cannot approach thee, through thy walls of Ice?
With all their fiery points, cannot once pierce thee?

Pop.
High minds should not be tempted with appearance,
Nor drown to dangerous courses from homely Cells,
Where honest pleasure with safe plenty dwells.

Pet.
But what converse, what Nobleness is here
To deck your thoughts, that claim a vaster Sphere;
Through all the Heav'n they should, like Eagles, roam,
Not stay in such a solitary home.

Pop.
What unkown guests are these that tear my brest?
Like slaves, in golden mines, they dig their way:
A Crown they shew, which my frail heart Adores;
Before my thoughts, a Royal Scepter flyes,
At which, my fancy grasps; but when it comes
And it bright glories offer to my hand,
I fain would reach, and yet refuse to hold.

Petr.
Madam, consider 'tis a mighty proffer;
'Tis not this Province, or that Colony;
He gives you all: all is a gift so great,
As none but Jove to Cæsar can bestow.
What is it deters you from your happiness?

Pop.
Oh, I am lost in Honours Labrynth,
No clew to guide me, but my own desire,
And that would lead me out, but knows not how.

Piso.

Oh Heaven, what will this earth come to! Was it
for this my noble Brother was sent for in so much haste? and
is it for this, he harbours that Viper in our house, to tear his
Darling hence, and eat his heart out? O Laws of hospitality,
why are you Sacred? why is my hand so backward to punish
that ravisher of our Honour?

Methinks I see that Genius of our house
Start from his Monument, and stalk along
Shaking with Panick fears, and with an eye
That Darts its poyson'd beams of Indignation
At me: me thinks I see him chide my slow
Revenge.

Pop.
My brother has lost his Senses.

Piso.
I would I had, and with thm lost my life,
So thou could'st find thy honour: Oh thy Honour!
More worth, than all that golden Pageantry,
High tops of Fortune, Glorious Pinacles,
And Heav'n knows what, that swim in thy fond fancy:
Those wanton Sepulchers have swallowed it;
Thy eyes, those graves of Nobleness and Glory
I've known the time, when, had I look'd but thus,
Thus curiously upon thee, straight a blush
Would mount in to thy cheek: there's nothing now
But pale dishonour. Prithee do not speak,
Thy words are pestilent, the blasting issue
Of a corrupted heart, diseas'd, and deadly.

Pop.
How should he know this? sure he over heard
Petronius talking with me: 't must be so.
But pray why is't a sin to go to Court?
I am not guilty of one wicked thought,
And yet you make me a most wretched creature.

Piso.
Indeed thou art a sinful wretched creature;
Thou art the wretched'st thing I ever saw:
Thy blood is all o' fire; the Emperour,
That Dog-star has inflam'd it; I pity thee.
O that my tears could make thy heart relent,
Or quench those fires that will devour thee;
Then I would drain those Chrystal Sources dry:
Rivers I'de weep, and long luxuriant streams,
My eyes should play the Wantons, not thy way.
If thou hast any sense of shame, look back;
Thy feet upon the brink of ruin stand;
But one step more, and thou art lost for ever:
Glorious destruction, glitt'ring miseries,
Will keep thee waking till death close thy eyes.

[Weeps.
Petr.
Fie, fie, my Lord; were your surmises true,
This is too much: it shows unmanly.

Piso.
Ha!
It will not be: rather than suffer this,
Let me be ever branded, base, and barbarous.
My rage is kindled, and I'le bear no more.
Begone, thou Monster, fly, thou Harpy, fly;
Put on thy wings of horror, and be gone,
Or, by my Honour, were this house a Temple,
Thy base black blood should stain the sacred floor.

Ex. Petro. and Poppea smiling on him.
Peso.
I am troubled; yet there is one way left:
Revenge, revenge! O thou art sweet and lovely!
I'le go to ROME, and with wrong'd Otho joyn.
[Trumpet sounds.]
What means this noise?

Servants running over the Stage.
Within. The Emperour, the Emperour!
Plau.
The Emperour, my Lord, is come in person hither.

Piso.
Ha! is it so? then all fond hopes farewel:
Diseases be his welcome. O, I am mad.
This night he whore's my Sister. Hell, hear my pray'r!
Despair, Revenge, and Murther, come along:
Bring you all your cursed crew and come along:
In fatal business I'le employ you all,
With this sole arm Heav'ns vengeance I'le forestall:
An act so great, pale Brutus shall desire
To see Cato and Cassius, shall admire.
Start not, my Soul, but do't; Poppea dyes,
My anger's Victim, Honour's Sacrifice.
Her Beauties, so ador'd, so much admir'd,
With pride and sensual pleasure so inspir'd,
Shall in a moment sicken, fade, and fall;
Like the North-wind, I'le rush, and blast you all.
Nero, prepare; for, when so're I come,
Immortal as thou art, I bring thy doom.
I'le make that Cedar tremble like a reed:
Nero shall dye; that vaunting God shall bleed.

Exit.
The Scene changes. Alter a Song, the Emperour comes in Royally attended, bowing to Poppea &c. Petronius.
Nero.
Model of Heav'n thou Ornament of Earth,
Propitious Star that smiles on humane birth!
Or art thou Goddess of the silver floods?
Or the fair Heav'nly Huntress of these woods?
Or art thou Venus? Venus wants such fire,
When by the Graces, drest in bright attire,
She hasts to meet her Noble warrior's Arms:
Venus, in height of dalliance, wants such Charms.
Such beauty never was by Paris seen;
Such conqu'ring Ayr, and such Majestick meen.
O, Most Divine! with pity bless my flame.

Pop.
Be not deluded, Sir; I mortal am.

Ne.
If thou of mortal seed art born, be mine,
And I will make thee
More happy, than those pow'rs we call Divine.
To please thy sense, and ravish thy soft pow'rs,
I'le make such Grotto's springs, and Royal Bowr's,
As shall transcend the blest Elizian shade,
Tempe's fair grave and Ida's flow'ry head,
Where the Gods meet, and Dance in Masquerade.
For Baths, we will Hydaspes current lave,
Lie close incircl'd in a Golden wave:
Thou Queen Triumphant; I thy humble slave.
Loe, at thy feet, Nero himself does lie,
He that commands the Earth, the Sea, the Skie,
For love of thee, does languish, sigh, and die.

Pop.
Is all this true? can you do all these things?
Good Heav'n what happy creatures are you KINGS!

Nero.
If thy heart bears such softness as thy brest,
Then I am happy, then I'm truly blest.
All my dear Joys are treasur'd in those eyes,
Those kinder Stars, those Suns of Paradise.
Without thy smiles, alas, I nothing am,
But the poor shaddow of a mighty name.

Pop.
How my soul's rack'd, with joy and anxious fear!
Fain I would go, and yet would tarry here.
Whence do these new desires and wishes come?
Fain I would see I know not what, nor whom.
How rarely this KING talks! how far above
My Lord's grave rules of duty and of love!

Nero.
About thy knees, O, let me ever grow.

Pop.
Why do you weep?

Oero.
My eyes shall ever flow:
Or, if these tender sources should decay,
My thawing soul shall melt it self away.
O stay: I'le follow thus, if you remove,
And hold thee fast with all the force of love.

Pop.
Why is my heart in its resolves, so slow?
Like a fond child, when two gay things you show,
With wondring eyes it looks, does leap, and quake
For both; yet, doubtful, neither can partake.
Heav'ns! how he pants! how his lips warm my hand!

Nero.
They draw their heat from this warm firebrand.

Petr.
She yields, she yields! her looks her thoughts betray!
Greatness is entred, and her soul gives way.
Follow her still, and let her take no rest:
She thinks it pleasure to be so opprest.

Pop.
What must the price of all these pleasures be?
Nature's choice offring, Art's variety
Of noisy shows, and mighty Gallantry!

Nero.
The price of all, is but thy gentle love.
Secure, in Heav'n, as Juno keeps her Jove,
Thou shalt keep me, fetter'd in golden chains;
The soft sad story of my pleasing pains,
In sighs upon thy bosom I'le relate;
Thy Beauty'es creature, thou my Glories fate.
Drawn in a Chair of Gold, emboss'd all o're
With their great Images whom we adore,
On velvet floors Triumphant thou shalt ride,
Princes shall run like pages, by thy side:
The Sun shall, from his flaming seat, look down,
And of the Thund'rer, ask a brighter Throne,
While all the Gods do blush
To see their art, by mortal wit out-done.

Pop.
And will you do all this for love of me?
Are there such charms in my society?

Nero
But one short night let me your love enjoy,
And I, next mornig, will my life destroy.

Pop.
Indeed you shall not; that were too severe.
Nay, if you love me, pray live all the year.
For fancy, I substantial pleasure reap
Is that all? 'Tis very cheap.
Tell me not what my duty does require;
Love mans me now, and shows his sacred fire:
To Crowns, those mighty objects I aspire.
If you dare do, as you have said, lead on:
Pale piety, Adieu; live here alone,
While I go taste the pleasues of a Throne.

Nero.
Our Chariots haste: yet stay, I will not go.
Thou abstract of all sweets, thou melter, Oh
Gods! 'tis too much Joy has my Soul distrest,
Weary'd with raptures, take it to thy brest,
On those soft Globes of beauty let it rest.
Kind God of Love, O bring thy mother's Doves,
And waft us through the calm Celestial groves,
Surfeiting on each other's brest wee'l stray;
When we want words, and know not what to say,
With eyes thus languishing wee'll look all day:
Now sigh, now smile, or thus infolded lie,
And all along the Milky way wee'll die.

Exeunt.