University of Virginia Library

ACT. I.

Scæn. I.

Otho. Sylvius. Cyara, Disguis'd.
SYLVIUS.
Why dost thou droop, and hang thy pensive head?
As if there were no end of thy distress?
His sighs more frequent than the minutes are;
Tears hang upon his cheeks, like morning dews
On Roses: Yet I cannot blame thy grief.

Otho.
Sir, You amaze me with your sad relation.
That Fatal Night Prince Alamander fell,
I, and some more, were in our General's Tent.
(Great Corbulus he's call'd) who with success,
Has often led our gallant Roman Troops,
Against your Parthian horse; as I remember,
'Twas midnight when our Scouts, all pale with fear,
Came, flying, with the news of your approach:
Our General undisturb'd, straight gave Command
That every Captain should his Charge perform,
With as much silence as was possible;
No Drums; no Trumpets Sounded, all was hush'd,
Order in whispers, was by all receiv'd:
So your Surprize was answered with Surprize,
And gain'd us, without the Victory;
For 'tis our custom frequently to sleep
Whole nights in arms, never to rest secure.

Cyara.
Our loss, indeed, was great; but Oh! that loss
Of losses, our dear Prince, surpasses all!
For him, our Court now mourns; Sorrow, like night,
Eternal night, spreads horror all around:
All Noble hearts are cover'd with despair;
For our bright Sun must never shine again.
Some dawn of hope we had, he might be here
A pris'ner, and unknown; but Fate decrees
We wall not be so happy.

Oth.
Sir, wherein
My service may prove beneficial,
Or yield you any comfort, pray command it.
Captives, of every sort, as time permits,
I'll bring before you: if your eye can read
A line, that's your Prince in any face,
Examin it to th' full. Mean while, be pleas'd
To take a strict Survey of all the Court,
The greatest, and most flourishing, on Earth.

Syl.
So every tongue reports it; a full Orb
Of matchless Glory, where your Emperor
Rules, like the Sun, and gives each noble, warmth.

Oth.
Nothing appears, alas, as heretofore;
The darkness of his horrid vices, have
Eclips'd the glimmering rays of his frail virtue.
His cruelties, like birds of prey, have pick'd
All seeds of Nobleness from his false heart;
And now it lyes a sad dull lump of earth,
Impatient of wise councel, and reproof.
To day he dooms, his Mother to be slain;
Swears, that she plots against his Crown, and life:
Sentence is past, and the poor Queen's betray'd.
See where she comes.

Emperor, Octavia, Britanicus, Seneca, Drusillus, Piso, Plautus; Agrippina, led by two Virgins all in white, a Dagger, and bowl of Poyson carry'd before her: Courtiers, and Guards following. Britanicus kneels.
Cya.
O, Sylvius, I am lost! there, there he kneels;
My flames increase, my Soul new passions feels.
My flight from Parthia I'll no more regard;
All was too little, for so great reward.

Nero.
To me?

Plau.
Dread Sir, the Prince Britanicus.

Ne.
Say you?

Plau.
He kneels.

Ne.
Sir, would you ought with me?

Brit.
Not for my self, but for the Queen, thus low
I fall, and beg you would some pitty shew.
Cast from your brest, this rank and Poys'nous hate:
Alas, how many do repent too late?
In acts of Love, KINGS are best understood:
Hell makes some great; 'tis GOD-like to be good.
It is your Mother—
Oh that that Sacred name should not avert
Your wrath! nor, with its softness, melt your heart!
Your Mother 'tis, whom you command to bleed:
What will the cens'ring World think of this deed?

Ne.
Why, let it think: if Asses bray, must I
Regard? I say, again, that she shall dye.
Why is she not to Execution led?
She's plotting now. Drusillus, see her dead.

Sene.
If, for the guilty, we to Heav'n may pray,
Can you the Innocent—

Ne.
Old fool, away.

Brit.
Justice is robb'd, his sword & scales you move;
Sweet Mercy starts, and, striking, flyes above,
Where, to the Gods, such horrid tales of you
She does relate, as they can scarce think true:
Fate trembles, as she writes in her book;
Ev'n Jove, with horror of this fact, is shook,
New points his Thunder, brandishes ith' Ayr
Dread Lightning, and, and with Rome, intends a War.

Ne.
Let him begin; my purpose I'll maintain,
Though he should scorching showrs of Sulphur rain.
Though he stood near—
And from some neighbouring Cloud, did hurl down fire,
With fresh recruits of men, his arm I'ld tire,
And she, at last, should, spight of him expire.
Would he were here, to end the grand debate:
But why, with you, do I catipulate?
My word's an Oracle, and stands her Fate.

Octa.
Ah, Cæsar, if you can thus cruel prove
To her, and lay aside all filial Love,
What must I then expect, who am your wife,
But that you, shortly too, should take my life?
By all the pleasures of our marriage bed—

Ne.
I swear, speak one word more, and thou art dead.

Brit.
Tyrant, this must not be, while I draw breath.

Ner.
then thou dy'st too,

Brit.
Lo, thus I brave my death.

Ne.
Ha! does he smile?
By all the Gods, I'll quickly change your mirth:
With my own hand, I'll cut thee from the earth.

Oth.
Dread Sir—

Ne.
Was ever such an insolence?

Brit.
Sir, what I did was in my own defence.
When e're I rise against Sacred head
In thought, may loads of Thunder strike me dead.
You are my Master, and Rome's Emperour;
May you live long, and make right use of pow'r.

Cya.
Guard him, you Gods, and save his innocence.

Ne.
So Sir: yet she shall dye. Go, take her hence.

Octa.
Oh, how my tender heart does Sympathise!
Grief stirkes me dumb, and pity fills my eyes.

Agr.
Thou savage Monster, seed of Rocks, more wild
More wild than the fierce Tygress, of her young beguil'd,
Barbarian! who in some dark cave wert bred,
Made drunk with poyson, with corruption fed,
Offspring of Hell! But, oh, my lab'ring mind
Cannot get vent, nor fit expressions find,
Why was I made so strong? Oh my accurst!
Grief swells me up, and yet I cannot burst.

Ne.
Why would she thus in torments here remain?
I pitty her: go put her out of pain.

Agr.
Tyrant, wherein have I deserv'd this base
And barbarous usage?—Oh my foul disgrace!
Ha! shall I tell it to the World, or dye,
And in my Urn, let all in silence lye?
My Soul doth struggle, with its load of woes;
Woes much more horrid than those painful throws
My body felt, when first I brought to light
This cursed Son, now Basilisk, to sight.

Ne.
Am I to be obey'd? how dare you stay?
Furies and Hell! be gone, take her away.

Agr.
Oh stay a while, ere I lose my breath
Hear my last words; more dreadful than my death.
Bear me some winged GOD, and fix me High
On some tall Pyramid, that hits the Sky;
Place all the World, on the vast rounds below,
And make my voice so loud, that all may know:
This Monster, under Tyrian purple hid,
Did force a passage to his Mother's bed.
Where are thy dreadful bolts; (to Jove I call)
Strike Him, or me, amiss they cannot fall.
Oh horrid fact to tell! it wounds my ear:
The Day and Night together mingled were.
Monster of men, who altered nature's course,
The stream ran backwards, and found out the Source.

Nero.
The Beldame raves; Drusillus, take her hence:
All this is forg'd; Heav'n knows my innocence.
A moments respite I will not afford,
But when she's dead let Otho bring me word.

Exe. severally Nero & Agripp.
Manent Piso, Plautus, Mirmilon.
Piso.
Very well. Hark ye, Gentlemen, may we talk?

Plau.
Treason? No.

Pis.
Then I'll hold my peace.

Mir.

Faith, I know not, but there was a stranger here yesterday
hang'd, for looking suspitiously.

Pis.

Very good; 'twas an excellent memorandum; therefore
I'll shut my eyes, and not look at all, or hereafter always
in company were a Masque.

Plau.

Not so Sir if you tender your safety; such reservation
argues thoughtfulness: now the Emperor can't endure a man
that's given to meditation; hates a Philosopher, as much as
he loves a Fidler; Seneca, to my knowledge, is burthen
to him; in my hearing, he call'd him crazy Caterpillar,
and venerable Book-worm.

Mir.

Right, Plautus. Therefore, Piso,, be not thoughtful;
'tis dangerous. A friend of mine (heark ye) this morning, by
the Emperor's Order, had his throat cut, for being thoughtful

Pi.

The good Empress—

Plau.

How Sir?

Pis.

Well, the Empress then. Alas, how sudden, from the
top of Glory—

Mir.
Alas? do you pity her then?

Pis.
I, Sir. Greatness and goodness are—

Plau.
What, Sir;

Pis.
I know not, nor where, unless in the other world.

Mir.
You weep, Piso, have a care, a sort of liquid Treason.

Piso.
'Twas your hair hit my eye, and caused this Rheum:
I'll to the Country again. Farewel, Gentlemen.
Long live the Emperor; that's no Treason.

Mir.
No, Sir no: Adieu, good Piso. He wears an honest heart.

Exeunt.
Scene, the Court.
Nero, Otho, Seneca, Drusillus, &c. Agrippina, dead.
Oth.
She is, as you would have her, (Sir) no more:
See where she lyes, all stained with her own gore.
She said, an antient man bid her beware
Of ever seeing you made Emperor;
For you, at last, would cause her to be slain:
Then let me dye, she said, so he may Reign.

Ne.
How wisely, then did I her death Decree!
For 'twould have been a great impiety
To let her live, and mar the Prophecy.

Oth.
Choice of two deaths, by your command, we gave;
But She cry'd, both; a double death I'le have:
One poys'nous drop, for Heav'n, I would not sell;
Each drop will sink his Soul more deep in Hell.
In her right hand, the Dagger she did hold;
And with her left, she heav'd the Fatal gold,
And drunk the venom off: that being done,
Deep, in her brest, the keen Stilletto run:
With many wounds she made her bosom gay;
Her wounds like flood-gates, did themselves display;
Through which, life ran, in scarlet streams away.

Ne.
Remove her hence. My Soul now free does walk,
And shall no more be clogg'd with moral talk.
My Statue shall be made of lasting steel:
Before it, Lords of Rome shall humbly kneel.
Great Julius and Augustus you adore;
And why not me who have their very pow'r?
To them you daily offer Sacrifice:
I am a GOD; my self I Canonize.

Sen.
'Mongst Gods their Glory shines now they are gone.
Because, with us, like Stars their virtues shone.

Ne.
Virtue's a name; Religion is a thing
Fitter to scare poor Priests, than daunt a KING.
Swift, as quick thought, through every art I range:
Who but a GOD, like me, could Sexes change?
Sporus be witness of my Mighty art;
Sporus, now Lady, once Lord of my heart.
At my command, the fragrant Winds do blow;
The willing floods in waves of balsom flow:
This hand does all the sweets of nature sow.
I ranksack Nature; all its treasures view;
Beings annihilate, and make a new:
All this can I, your God-like Nero, do.

Sen.
What Fiend is this which, in his brest, unspy'd,
Bears up his Soul on such large wings of pride?
Let me not dye for speaking what is true:
All this you would, but (alas!) canot do.

Ne.
Ha!

Sen.
If you do well and noble acts Atchieve,
When e're you dye, all honest hearts will grieve;
Each Roman will, to after Ages tell
How good, how great, how excellent you fell;
VVhat pitty 'twas that you should dye so young!
Thus shall your honour sound from every tongue:
But, though your Fame survive, your body must
Rot, and be crumbled into common dust.
Each grain of which, because you once did Reign,
Will not turn gold, nor any lustre gain:
Yours, and the Beggars dust alike must pass
Instead of sand, to fill Times hour-glass.

Ne.
Gown-man, thou ly'st.—
The VVorld's eternal, and its Monarch, I:
Then how is't possible for me to dye,
Yet give me creature immortality?
If, when I leave this world, men should debate
The manner; Say, I did my self translate.
The glory of my God-head I will shrowd
Not in a Mantle, but in a perfum'd Cloud:
In smoak of Incense I will mount above,
And, in his Throne, take the right hand of Jove.

Sen.
O murd'ring pride, thou dost all reason kill!
You will have Altars too?

Nero.
Yes, Slave, I will;
Altars of Gold, in Chrystal Temples built:
No blood of Bulls, nor Goats, shall there be spilt;
Such course rank smoak may sooty VULCAN please,
Pluto, or horned Pan; dull Deityes!
The best of humane gore shall wash my Shrine;
Neroes shall bleed, and they are half Divine.
In cases made of Diamond entire,
Stars shall instead of Lamps, lend their bright fire.
Each common God shall, in his turn, be Priest,
And for your lower world make his request:
Then offer up a grateful Sacrifice,
Kings heads, Queens hearts, and charming Virgins eyes.

Enter Petronius.
Sen.
O Heav'n! his blasphemies no limit have;
His bruitish impudence our Gods does brave:
Without controll he does their pow'r defy,
And I, like midnight hush'd, stand trembling by.
I'le speak, although he blast me with his breath;
Repentance too may win him for my death.
Dread Sir, if you would please—

Ne.
Fond preacher, hence.
Gods! can I still endure his insolence?
Guards, seize him; go, let him in prison howl,
And solace there his melancholly soul.
[Ex. Oth. Sen. & Guards.
But, dear Petronius, how shall I requite
Thee, who sole author art of my delight?
When my heart sickens, still thou bring'st me ease,
And dost my fancy, with new Objects, please.

Pet.
To sooth your soul, ruffl'd with this late storm,
My care found out so sweet, so rare a form,
So full of blooming graces, in each part,
As well deserves the conquest of your heart.
Not purple Violets, ith' early spring,
Such graceful sweet such tender beauties bring.
The Orient blush which does her cheeks adorn
Makes Coral pale, vies with the Rosy morn.
Not Venus, sprung from the Seas snowy foam,
Neptunes bright Seed, her whiteness can or'e come.
Cupid has took a surfeit from her eyes;
When e're she smiles, in Lambent fire he fries:
And when she weeps, in pearls dissolved he dyes.

Ne.
Hold, hold; I am o'recharged with this excess:
Thy deeds are great; but make thy boasting less.
What is her name? and where does she lye hid?

Pet.
She's the partner of Lord Otho's bed;
Poppea nam'd: with gold I brib'd her maid,
For which the easie slave her trust betray'd.
Not far from Rome this Beauty does reside;
Chaste she is thought, because yet never try'd.
Her quick black eye does wander with desire,
And, if I judge aright, bears wanton fire.
Oft as Syllana told me, when to Court
Her Lord was gone, eager of unknown sport,
She'd sigh, and in her bosom hide her face,
And with fierce action would the wench embrace.
Dress'd like DIANA, she in Woods is fear'd,
And gives swift chase to all the Savage herd:
With vigour masculine she rides along,
Her Quiver, full of shafts, behind her hung;
Her right hand holds a Dart, her left a Bow;
Her long black locks, on her fair shoulders flow,
As thick'ning clouds o're the Sun's brightness grow.

Ne.
Thou dear procurer of my most loved joyes,
Fly, fly; the least delay my life destroyes.
Now try thy skill; this is indeed a task:
Win her, and thou hast more than thou canst ask.
Exit Petronius.
Let phlegmatick dull KINGS, call Crowns their care:
Mine is my wanton; and does Beauties share
Above my Mistress Eyes. On, Nero, on;
Spend thy vast stock, and riot in thy Throne.
If there be pleasure yet I have not found,
Name it, some GOD: 'Tis mine, though under ground:
No nook of Hell shall hide it from my sight,
But I will conjure't into open light.
My Scepter, like a charming rod, shall raise
Such sports, as would old Epicures amaze:
Pleasures so rich, so various, and so new,
As never yet the Gods, my great fore-fathers, knew.

Exit.