Poppæa.

Ah, Nero, Nero! Rome will all be burned. Canst thou do nought?

Ner. Nothing. Come watch it with me. What are my spectacles to this? The gods Burn at my feet the capital of the world, ’Tis done for me to look on.

Pop. Hast thou a heart?

Ner. There is no mischief, love, I am not a match for. Rome is a second Troy, but when Troy burned None built it up; but I will rebuild Rome: Its name shall be Neropolis.

Pop. Vain thou art!

Ner. Eh! wouldst thou have it Poppæapolis?

Pop. I would not jest to think of all the misery, These homeless thousands....

Ner. Seneca hath taught me The good man cannot suffer, and the bad Deserves ill-fortune.

Pop. Woe to me! alas, That e’er I loved thee! one day too shall I Taste of thy scorn.

Ner. Nay, love; thy will’s my law. Tell me what I shall do.

Pop. If thou didst love me Thou wouldst not suffer Acte in the palace.

Ner. Acte! what’s she to do with it now? and yet If that’s thy sorrow, she shall go to-day. Send the witch hither.

Pop. And never to return.

Ner. Send her at once. I promised thee.

[Exit Poppæa.

See how ’Tis private pleasure that she seeks, nought else: And Seneca the same. That’s the true fire, That burns unquenchable in all human hearts. Let it rage, and consume the rotten timbers Of old convention, the dry mouldering houses Of sad philosophy, that in their stead I may build up the free and ample structure Of modern wisdom. Ay, and let Rome burn. Blow, wind, and fan the flames till all’s consumed; That out of full destruction may arise The perfect city of my reconstruction, Beautiful, incombustible, Neronic; Good out of ill: or rather there’s no ill: ’Tis good’s condition, cradle: ’tis good itself. But now for Acte, my Acte: poor little Acte! That bearest all so patiently; the insult And domineering scorn, which this fine lady, Whom for her beauty I have made my empress, Pours on thy head! Thou shalt have full protection: I cannot give it here, but I can send thee To those who hate thy rival, and for that Will cherish thee. Thy rival! rob me of thee! Why, there’s no clown in my subservient world, No drudge of lot the vilest, but may smile Secure in tyranny of one fair province, Where young love first campaigned, the tender trust Of a devoted woman: and shall Cæsar Throw up this allmen’s joy? nay, here the heart rules: Who aims at thee wounds me.

Re-enter Poppæa with Acte.

I thank thee, love; now leave us. Hither, Acte!

(Poppæa goes out, and is seen to hide where she can be seen by the audience, and can overhear.)