Attendant.

’Tis a good custom, lady, To honour thus the tombs of those we love.

Oct. Custom! Is this a custom? Then I think I wrong my sorrow in such common shows.

Att. Nay, it doth ease affliction to be busy; And grief, that cannot reckon with a mystery, Is comforted by trifles.

Oct. Why, thou’rt wrong; It brings no comfort.

Att. And ’tis kindly done To hide the fresh-cut stone. Death is hard featured In a new-built tomb.

Oct. O, hold thy peace! I see Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas, I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said, Think not our gracious deed finds its account In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed The more abundantly that they are crimes In the sight of him that slew him.

Att. Speak not so, Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught.

Oct. What would’st thou have me? Knowing my sorrow thou should’st rather wonder, And think it well that I speak sense at all.

Att. Let not such passion kill thy courage, lady; The greatest die. There stands the tomb of Julius, Whose mighty march was no less foully stayed At noon of power: there is Augustus’ tomb, Wherein so many lie...

Oct. Why, what are they To me? Is’t not my brother that is dead? Whose life was mine, as needful to my day As is the sun; as natural, old a want To very life as is the bathing air That my blood battens on. Take these away And give him back; it then were likelier I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine. He is gone! O miserably, suddenly, For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither?

Att. ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries Wreaths such as ours.

Oct. Let us begone in haste.

Att. Alas! she hath seen us, lady: ’tis too late.

Oct. I’ll but salute her. I pray you all keep back, Nor speak with her attendants.

Enter Agrippina, Fulvia, and Attendants.