Agrippina.

Thus must it be then. I must be cast out, Turned from the palace, lodged in a private house, Retired, reduced, forgotten, like any relic Of barbarous royalty, caged out of reach Of good or ill; my state just so much show As has no meaning. Now may some god of mischief Dare set me in the roll of puny spirits. Ah!—Hath this my seal, seemeth it? O may my foes Be fooled so far to think that guile will stay First in catastrophe. Nay, if I crouch, ’Tis but to plant a foot whence I may bound With braver spring.—I am clear; the right’s my hope. Right against blood hath still been honourable. Men love the name of Brutus. The first Brutus Slew his own son; the last his Cæsar. Ha! ’Tis madness; nay, that’s not my thought, not that. ’Twould fright the world that there should be a woman Who could slay Cæsar and son in one. Nay, nay, That lies beyond all fate. Yet, short of that,— O blood, thou sacrament and bond of nature, Look to the strain: summon thy best allies, Thy yearnings and thy shudderings, thy terrors And dreams of dread; marshal the myriad fingers Of scorn and hate: else, O thy rottenness Will out. Indeed I think thou’rt a weak thing, Bred of opinion; when I would have trusted thee, Hath not that other rivet of thy chain Snapped at the mutual end? Thy boasted anchor Drags on the bottom, and my ship drifts on To the rocks, to the rocks: missing that hold, the sense Is dizzy with madness; ay, and whither I go Is hidden; nor aught I know, save that the future, Whate’er it be, I shall do much to make.

Enter Britannicus.

Ah! ah! ’tis thee. Speak softly, for these walls have ears.