Octavia.

Most unkind.

Br. Weep not so. Octavia, weep not so. Count but my tears as thine, so shall my pity Comfort thy wrongs. Nay, wert thou not my sister, How must I feel to see so base a rival Honoured before thyself in Cæsar’s palace! Why even his mother could not grant him that Unmoved, but wept with rage: while he himself, I saw, was touched with shame.

Oct. Hush, hush! nay, ’tis not that; I mind not that: at least they tell me now I must not mind; and since he never loved me It matters little. ’Tis not that at all.

Br. Then something fresh; what more?

Oct. I scarce dare tell. What hast thou said or done, Britannicus, That so could anger him?

Br. Ah! is’t with me then He is angry? Dost thou weep for me?

Oct. For both.

Br. Now tell me all, sister.

Oct. O, ’tis the worst. Here as I sat this morning strode he in, More fired with rage than ever I have seen him, More like his wicked mother, when her fury Has made me tremble. All he said I heard not, But this, that I, his wife, had turned against him To plot with thee, and led thee on to boast That being of age thou wert the rightful heir, And more: what is his meaning?

Br. ’Tis his spite To seek my fault in thee.

Oct. Nay, that were nothing. Brother, I fear thou wilt be sent from Rome. He dare not face the truth. He cannot brook Thy title: thou must go, ay, thou wilt go And leave me in my prison.

Br. ’Twas last night I vexed him suddenly in his cups, but thought ’Twould be as soon forgotten.

Oct. Say, how was it?

Br. It was the feast of Saturn,—and as it chanced (Or rather, I should say, ’twas so arranged To please him, at his own desire) he drew The lot of king of the feast, and when the company Were drunk he used his silly privilege To have me be their fool.

Oct. Didst thou rebuke him?

Br. It happened thus. When all the guests in turn Had answered to their forfeit, as his humour Prescribed to each, he turned on me, and bade me Show them a tragic scene, foreseeing how The incongruence of time and place, the audience Of drunken sots would turn my best to worst, And smother passion in a sea of laughter. But, for the wine I had been constrained to taste Had mounted to my head, I felt at heart A force to wither up their sottish jeers, And ere I knew my purpose I was sitting Upright upon the couch, and with full passion Singing the old Greek song thou saidst so well Suited our fortunes.

Oct. O, would I had been there! They could not laugh at thee.

Br. They did not laugh. The sadness and the sweetness of the music, After their low hoarse songs, startled to sense Their sodden, maudlin brains: they listened all To the end, and then with daunted appetite Sat in constraint and silence.

Oct. Oh! well done! And what said Nero?

Br. He but smiled until The tale tells how the poor child disinherited Was put to death by his usurping brother; Then his eye sank; and last, when Paris rose At the end and praised my acting, he grew wild, And said the feast was o’er, and bade us go.

Oct. Alas! ’twas done too well.

Br. I mind it not: I wear no mask: and manifold occasion Will oft surprise our closest guard, provoking Unbidden motions that betray the heart: ’Twere vain to seek to quell them: they are like our shadows, Which, if the sun shine forth, appear and show Our form and figure. Such haps cannot be helped.

Enter Agrippina and attendants.