University of Virginia Library

Act. IV.

Scæ. I.

Nero, Poppea, sitting in State.
Nero.
Let not my Crown and self thy wish confine:
Ask what thou wilt; by all the Gods, 'tis thine.
Be studied in't, and Ile applaud thee for't:
Mean while, behold the pleasures of our Court.

[Dance &c.
Enter Britannicus, Mad: and Cyara.
Pop.
O, my dread Lord, for these let me implore.

Nero.
Live, wretches, and this Excellence adore.

Brit.
Stay me not? by the Gods, I'le break your hold.
So sad a story, Orpheus never told,
When his harmonious sighs pierc'd Pluto's gate;
But I ban Heav'n, curse the Great Gods, and Fate.
And yet I will not speak, the theam's too stern;
Here Hell it self might witty horror learn.
Some whirl-wind snatch me headlong through the Ayr,
Wrapt round with clouds invelop'd in despair,
That I from Earth may hide this dismal deed:
Honour is stabb'd, and all the Virtues bleed.
Cyara's faln, Octavia too is gone;
In Death's damp vaults she wanders all alone:
I saw her Soul dive strangely through the ground,
In her own blood that spark of Heav'n was drown'd:
Treason against the Gods he did conspire;
Oh Traytor, worse than he that stole their fire!

Nero.
Who was that Traytor, Prince?

Brit.
I know not, Sir,
Unless that Dog that was her Murderer.

Nero.
Who was that Dog?

Brit.
Why, Cerberus I guess;
No Savage else could hurt such gentleness.
Such meekness would wilde Panthers fury charm,
And hungry Lyons of their rage disarm;
Ev'n o're their prey, it would the conquest get,
Quell their swoln hearts, and cool their bloody heat.

Nero.
Madman begone.

Brit.
This madman is a Prince.

Nero.
I say again, forbear this insolence,
Or thou shalt wish thou wert a Beggar born:
At once, thou mov'st my pity and my scorn.

Brit.
'Twas you that kill'd my Sister.

Nero.
Ha! thou ly'st:
Stand not my rage; for, if thou dost, thou dy'st.

Brit.
Then I will sit, and hear your Thunder roar;
Such humble shrubs it hurts not, but flyes o're.

Nero.
But you shall find, for once, 'twill condescend:
I pity thee, and will thy sorrows end.

Cya.
Hold; by the Gods, I do conjure you, stay:
First through my bosom force your bloody way.
In policy you ought his life to spare;
For, if you let him live, Heav'n will forbear
To punish you, nor will due vengeance take;
The just good Gods will spare you, for his sake.

Brit.
How the Boy prattles! 'tis a pretty Boy!
Cyara's Image! how that damps my Joy!
What mean these two, by such an antick form?
Here's a soft calm, and there a blustring storm.
My Painter so shall draw me day and night:
Here horrid darkness stands; there, gaudy light:
There, cruelty, like the red Sea appears;
Here, melting mercy flows in pitying tears.
Exquisite Emblems! perfect good and evil:
A Heav'n, a Hell, an Angel, and a Devil.

Nero.
If I gaze long, I shall my nature lose:
Mid'st of my full carreer, I stop and muse.
Whence does this poor unworthy pause proceed?
Can I repent my rage? No, he shall bleed.

Cya.
Hold Sir, you cannot strike.

Nero.
How? cannot, Boy?

Cya.
Alas, I ly'd; I know you can destroy:
You can do all things, Sir, both drown and burn;
Nay, the whole World to its first Chaos turn.
You are a God to damn, a King to kill:
You can do all things, if had the will.
But you are kind, and soft; I know you are;
Your eyes are Noble, and delight to spare.
O Heav'n! how Men will lye! nay, now I find
You have a gentle, Great, and GOD-like mind.
The Prince is Mad, and you are pleas'd to see't,
Nay, pardon all,—O let me kiss your feet.
You'll win all hearts, by such kind acts as these;
With my warm tears I'le bath your sacred knees.

Nero.
Shall I be branded with the name of good?
Begone, thou soft invader of my blood;
Mercy and I, no correspondence have;
Pity's a whining tender-hearted slave:
Fury I love, because she's bold and brave.
As I scan things, Virtue's the greatest crime:
Stand off; or I will pass through thee, to to him.

[kills her.]
Pop.
Hold, Cæsar, now I take you at your word;
If you will keep your promise, sheath your sword.

Nero.
'Twere less to give the world, than let him live;
Yet your commands with Joy I do receive.

Brit.
What barbarous hand has done this horrid deed?
Oh, my dear Boy, look up; thou dost not bleed.
Stop, stop, thou bloody Spring; my hair perforce
Shall bind thee, and damn up the Scarlet source:
I will my self thy kind Phisician be;
When I was sick, thou still wert so to me:
At my bed side, strict watch all night he'ld keep,
And, with his Songs, rock my dull cares a sleep.
His cheeks are pale! Roses, look forth again,
And smile for Joy your pretty Rival's slain.
Fate wove thy thred of life too fine to last.
All's lost at once! O Sad! O desp'rate cast!
Thus, in my arms, I'le bear thy beauty's hence;
No guilty hand shall touch thy innocence:
Thus, arm in arm, we in one grave will lye;
Wretched we liv'd, but happy we will dye.

[Exit with Cyara.]
Pop.
What means my trembling heart by this surprize?
Why do I sigh? why do these blushes rise?
Before my soul, a mournful Troop appears;
Hopes stifled in their birth, starts sudden fears
Languishing Joys, and solitary tears!
I love him; 'tis too plain Just Heav'n has sent
On my inconstancy this punishment
I've gone too far to think of a return;
I must enjoy him: O my heart does burn!
My blood boils high, and beats with strange desires:
'Tis just that madness mingle with such fires.

[Exit.
Nero.
Thou hast a Wit; some sudden means contrive.

Pet.
Believe me, Sir, this night he sha'nt survive.

[Exit Nero &c.
Solus.
Contrivance gives a mischief gloss—'tis fine:
I ha't—my kinsman Burrhus fills his wine;
By nature bloody—then the pow'rful charm
Of gold, a present gain, no future harm,
Safe in the Emp'ro'rs favour he shall live:
All this well weigh'd, my black design must thrive.
Nature has not been overkind to me;
Her limber Sons and I cannot agree:
She is my Stepdame; but my comfort is,
To pay her home, this night her darling dyes.

Exit.

Scæ. II.

Otho, Piso.
Piso.
Yet be advis'd, and let us end this strife.

Oth.
Deny thy words, and I will spare thy life.

Piso.
Deny my words? what didst thou ever see
In all my life, to raise this thought in thee?
My Nature's hot, provoke me, Sir, no more:
I do prononce again she is a whore.

Otho.
Blasphemer, Peace; rage does my heart-strings tear:
Wert thon my Father, I could not forbear.

Piso.
Sir, I dare Fight.

Otho.
Guard well thy Life.

Piso.
I do.
This sport was ne'r unwelcom until now.
[Fight.]
You bleed.

Otho.
No matter, Sir, the wound's but slight.

Piso.
O, Brother, hear me, for I will not Fight.

Otho.
You must.

Piso.
I cannot. Heav'ns! what have I done?

Otho.
Thou art a coward; pr'ythee, Boy, begone.

Piso
Curse on my hand that drew your preious blood!
Poppea is an Angel, chaste and good:
I'le flatter you; I care not what I say,
Rather than still pursue this fatal fray.

Otho.
Now I believe what thou hast said is true;
Pity has done what anger could not do:
O, she is false, forsworn, and I am lost,
My Soul is ship-wrack'd on its most lov'd coast;
By thy Victorious mercy I'm undone.
Go, Noble brother, leave this wretch alone;
O, my heart's sick! your pardon, pray no more;
Here I will lie, and my hard hap deplore.

Piso.
Then I will sit for ever by your side
Take it not ill, if I this tameness chide:
Rouse up your wrath, let anger chase away
These sullen clouds; Revenge will bring the day
Again, and make your honour shine more bright,
While it damns her to shades of death and night.

Otho:
Ha! thou hast wak'd my Soul from its dull rest;
Revenge, thou gen'rous fire, enrich my brest.
Poppea passes over the Stage.
O glorious Whore! I'le sink her with a blow,
She's rotten ripe for ruin; let me go.

Piso.
You see her guards will your Revenge oppose,
And thus, for nothing, we our lives shall lose.

Otho.
Down, down, my swelling heart; O, I am sad:
Hold, my weak eyes; this sight has made me mad.

Piso.
Blinded with rage, our Reason's apt to stray:
Be rul'd by me; I'le shew the safest way.

Exeunt.

Scæ III.

Britannicus reading, Poppea enters.
Pop.
Musing, and all alone? Syllana, go,
The bottom of my Fate I'le quickly know:
My Virtues are dethron'd, and passions rule;
O Heav'ns! my crimes you have reveng'd at full.

Brit.
It is a truth? or does Fame tell us lyes,
When it reports that the Soul never dyes,
But mantled sits, and acts in gloomy shrouds,
Like Cynthia, when she's hemm'd with circling clouds?
When the soft partner of our griefs and joyes,
With trembling hands shall close our dying eyes,
When in sad sort our friends shall stand and mourn,
To see the Fatal torch those relicts burn,
Is there an end of thought? no farther care?
No throne of bliss, nor caverns of despair?
No dens of darkness, nor no seats of Glory?
Then all our grave discourse is but a story.
Some full-gorg'd Priest, nodding beneath a shade,
Tales of Elizium, and the dull pool, made.
Whither, O whither, go we, when we dye?
Why, there where babes not yet conceiv'd do lie?
Death's nothIng; nothing after death will fall;
Time, and dark Chaos, will devour us all.

Pop.
I come to kill thee, Prince.

Brit.
My Boy is dead;
To Heav'ns bright Throne his brighter Soul is fled:
Yonder he mounts on silver burnish'd wings;
Each God, immortal sweets around him flings.
Now, lkie a ship, he cuts the liquid Sky;
His Rigging's Glorious, and his Mast is high;
Fan'd with cool winds his Golden colours fly.
Ha! wilt thou follow him? begin: strike home.

Pop.
I say, to kill thee (Prince) I hither come.
Thy eyes sharp beams have run quite through my heart,
And I, on thine, will thus revenge the smart.

Brit.
Strike, and by Heav'n I'le kiss thee for the blow:
Be quick; my blood is black, and full of woe:
Do me this welcome dangerous cruelty,
Fair Murdress, if thou art my enemy.

Pop.
Nay, sure you flater'd, when you term'd me fair.

Brit.
If Lillyes, snow, and light, be such, you are.

Pop.
If I am so, this deed would make me foul,
And cast eternal spots upon my soul;
Therefore, thou horrid instrument, be gone:
VVithout thy help, alas, I am undone.
I faint.

Brit.
VVithin my arms I'le hold thee, till
Thy Soul return, and greedy death beguile.
In Rosy gales life through her lips does stream.

Pop.
VVhy did you wake me from this golden dream?
Oh, I am sick!

Brit.
I am contagious, sure;
And all that touch me dye.

Pop.
You are my cure:
'Tis only in your power to make me live.
From those lov'd eyes let me this Balm receive.
Within this circle let me ever grow.

Brit.
Thou charmer, speak; what wouldst thou have me do?

Pop.
Something—why, thus to press your hand, that's all.
Heav'n how he shakes! why do you tremble, Prince?

Cyara's Ghost.
Brit.
Ha! what art thou? thou ayry phantasm, hence.
O, Gods! it is my Boy: what would'st thou have?
How cold he looks, just ris'n from the grave!

Cya.
Go not to bed, but fly that Sorceress arms;
She tempts, like Circe, and has deadly charms.
Think on Cyara, for she lov'd thee well:
Take heed, beware; thou'rt in the Rode to Hell.

Exit.
Brit.
Stay, I conjure thee stay, leave me not thus,
If thou did'st ever love Britannicus.
I'le follow thee along thy Ayay track,
And mount above the clouds to fetch thee back.

Exit.
Enter Sylvana with a Taper.
Silva.
O Heav'ns! How do you, Madam? what success?

Pop.
I'le tell thee, Killing woe, and deep distress.
Thy arm my Girl; I'le shew thee e're we part
Sad things: a troubled mind, and wounded heart.
Ah! for my former peace, what would I give?
My comfort is, this shame I shame I sha'nt survive.
Oh dismal change! nothing is constant found;
The Gods, with whirl-winds, drive our Fortunes round.

Exeunt

Scæ IV.

Nero, sleeping in a Couch; Caligula's Ghost appears.
Ghost.
From the Infernal cave, the wide, the low
Abyss, the direful pit of endless woe,
On which each God that looks scarce keeps his State,
But, giddy grown, turns and takes hold of Fate,
Caligula, in vapors wrapt, does come,
Nero, thy friend, and the sworn foe of ROME.
Not Hell's more deradful, than these hated walls;
The Stygian waves, and Terrhene water's falls,
Alike with fear confound my troubled Soul,
And sprinkle equal horrors as they rowl.
By Traytors hands I fell: O that I could,
For every drop they shed, Spill Seas of blood.
Oh Heav'n, I'de do what cannot be exprest!
VVith raging Plagues I'de fill each Roman brest:
Burn Palaces: like Thunder, I would rave,
Tear the tall woods, and rend each Sacred Grove.
But oh! by pow'rful Fate I am confin'd
And must not reak the madness of my mind.

Nero,
Act thou, what can't be done by me,
Thy Genius, I, will aid thy cruelty:
With my pale hand I stroak thy troubled sense;
All poyson Hell contains I do dispense;
The scum of Lethe, with Alecto's gall,
Mægera's sweat, shall on thy vitals fall;
Errinnis shall about thy heart-strings twine;
Yet all's too little for our great design.
Lo, I am warn'd; see where fierce Envy stands,
And summons me, by Pluto's dread commands.
Go on, be mad; no more I must be gone,
And vanish, like the light when day is done.
Nero, Solus.
VVhere have I been? thou Dæmon of the night
Return; I'm rack'd with this appalling sight,
The forked tongues of Furyes can't express
The rage that burns within me: Sulphur's less;
Not Hell it self so full of dread appears;
Not Night, nor darker Death, such horror wears;
Not the destructive force of wind, and fire,
VVhen some great City's ruin they conspire;
Not the davouring Sea, when Neptune makes.
The Sea-Gods drunk, and draughts of ruin takes
VVrong'd womens hate, Sword; Famine, Plagues combine;
Your madness trebled cannot equal mine:
All you faint emblems of my fury are;
No tender Sex, nor age my wrath shall spare.
Enter Drusillus bloody.
What news? thy looks declare it to be good,
A hasty joy appears, though drest in blood.

Drus.
The rabble, Sir, with wine and rage inspir'd
With Trayt'rous hands your Palace would have fir'd:
Your Guards they did assault; but we withstood
Their heat, and soon allay'd it with their blood:
Few strokes were giv'n ere the base cowards fled,
Some pris'ners are, some scap'd, and some are dead.

Nero.
Ha! do they bid me battle? they shall die:
At their own weapon I the slaves defy.
Nothing but flames can quench my kindled Ire:
Blood's not enough; Fire I'le revenge with fire.
Fierce as young Phaeton I will return:
Great ROME, the World's Metropolis, shall burn.
On Tyber's flood new beams I will display,
And turn black Night into a golden Day.
The molten GODS shan't save their Capital,
Temples shall tumble down, guilt roofs shall fall:
Bright Ruin, with a noise shall swallow all.

Exeunt.