Scae. 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?