Flavus.

I never saw so many books before.

Sen. And all my good tried friends.

Luc. Uncle!

Sen. Eh!

Luc. They say Poppæa hath Octavia’s head in the palace To play with.

Sen. ’Tis a journaler’s lie.

Luc. Did Fulvia Not pierce the tongue of Cicero dead?

Sen. Fie! fie! Let journalers traduce their filthy souls: Why bring ye me their scandals, when to truths, That daily I must hear, I wish me deaf?

Luc. O sir, Rome thinks thou árt deaf: and men whisper That creeping time devours thee sense by sense, While thou, death’s willing prey, dost sit at home Wreathing philosophies to hang the tomb Of liberty, and crown the coward brows Of icy oblivion. Sir, if this were true, Well mightst thou wish not hear: but if thou hast not Forgot the murder of Britannicus....

Sen. Hush, hush!

Luc. Or sweet Octavia’s wrongs....

Sen. Stay, nephew! I say.

Luc. The shame of her divorce....

Sen. None of this, prithee! For true it is I wish I could forget.

Luc. Her transportation and imprisonment Upon an outlawed isle; that calumny, Dumb in her faultless presence, might dare trumpet Charges incredible: and last her death By a clumsy soldier, ’gainst whose butcher’s knife She struggled childishly, to the stony walls Screaming in terror. O sir, let no Roman, Who hath one hand unbound, wish he were deaf.

Sen. Enough! enough!

Luc. Why this, sir, is a tale Would damn a tragedy for the overdoing Of the inhumanities.

Sen. Ay, and I think, Nephew, it gains not by thy rhetoric.

Lat. But Nero, sir, is held thy pupil, and thou In part discredited,—nay, none but thou Since Burrus died.

Sen. Well, well: but Burrus’ death Hath halved my power, and left the lesser half Helpless in isolation.

Lat. That’s a fact. We come, my lord, to bid thee join thy hand With them that look to thee. There’s Fænius Rufus, That’s now in Burrus’ place, another Burrus.

Sen. Another Burrus! Fifty Rufuses Would make no part of Burrus. Why! I am grieved More for his goodness, when I think of him, Than by all Nero’s ill. My staunch friend was he, Stern as a Roman, tender as a woman: A simple mind, a clear head, and true heart; Faithful, unblenched and certain of his path. All that philosophy has ever taught me He knew by instinct, and would hit the mark With careless action, where my reason fumbled And groped in the dusk. I say, if all the books I have ever read or writ, could make one man Like Burrus, with so natural a touch, And such godlike directness, none would doubt Of our philosophy.

Luc. But now he’s gone.

Sen. There’s none like Burrus.

Lat. Lo, my lord, I am one To dare what Burrus never dared.

Sen. What’s that?

Lat. The tyrant’s death.

Sen. (rising). Ha! Now we have it! Seal your lips and depart.—And thou too, nephew, To seek to engage me!

Lat. First, my lord; our safety.

Sen. Alas, alas! Nay, leave me. I know nothing. Ye heard I did but guess.

Luc. Thou didst guess right.

Sen. Ye have wronged me, gentlemen, choosing to make me Privy to your distempered plots; but rightly Judged that I would not sacrifice your lives To save the monster’s. Nay: were Nero’s death God’s will, as yours it seems, I might rejoice. But in your scheme to whom would ye entrust The absolute power? If Nero be pulled down, Whom would ye bid us worship? The empire needs A god,—or, if not that, a godlike man, Plato’s philosopher for king.

Lat. Agreed! ’Tis a philosopher we have chosen, sir.

Luc. Speak not to us of kings and emperors, uncle; Wé restóre the republic.

Sen. Hey! Is’t Thrasea Ye would make emperor?

Luc. Thrasea hath no wealth Nor favour with the people.

Sen. Who is’t then That leads your dream a-dance?

Lat. Sir, ’tis no dream.

Sen. Who then?

Fla. (advancing). Hail, Cæsar, hail!

Sen. Why, man, what’s this?

Fla. We choose thee Cæsar.

Luc. We crown thee.

Lat. Hail, great Cæsar!

Sen. Me! madmen, me! Cæsar! me! I am retired ... And—oh! no—never. Who hath chosen me? Is this thy folly, nephew, when thou tell’st me My friends decrease?

Luc. I said the truth: ’tis time Thou rise and rally them. We have a party.

Sen. I have no party.

Luc. We may count for yours All the republicans. Your oratory Will win the senate, and your wealth the people. Rufus is ours, and brings the guards; Vestinus, The consul, ours; here’s Lateranus with us, The consul designate; at Nero’s death Corbulo and the eastern army... ’Tis no party: ’Tis all except a party.

Sen. Patience, nephew. I weigh the names we count. I see . but . yet ...

Luc. Nero once slain, ’tis needful for the hour To name an emperor. The pillaged world, That tasted five years of thy regence, loves thee; While those that would restore Rome’s public rule Will hail thy leadership.

Fla. Princeps Senatus!

Sen. Pray, how far hath this gone?

Luc. I have sounded many, And found them eager if but thou assent. Yet none knows that we ask thee.