THE TRAGEDY OF NERO, Emperour of ROME: As it is Acted at the Theatre-Royal, By His Majesties Servants.

By Nathaniel Lee, Gent.

LONDON, Printed by T. R. and N. T. for Iames Magnus and Richard Bentley, at the Post Office in Russel-street in Covent-Garden, 1675.

TO THE Right Honourable The Earl of ROCHESTER.

My Lord,

POets for the most part in their Dedications miss of their de­sign, which should be to please that Honourable Person, whose protection they desire. For what pleasure can a Noble Spirit (whose Ingenuity equals its height) receive an exorbitant Praise and ill tim'd Applause? Not that the severest Cynick should snarl at just Commendations and due En­comiums; [Page] such was the Epistle of Ho­race to Augustus Plinie's Panegyrick to Trajan, which sort of ponder'd Elo­quence ought to be as Grateful to a brave and elevated Mind as Adorations to the Deity. My Business waving Insinua­tion is to pray, not to praise; and I hope I shall appear less troublesome to your Lordship under the form of a Begger, than that of a Flatterer. Your protection & favour is implor'd by this Humble Suppli­cant in the behalf of a Civil Tyrant, at least one whom I have so represented, and for which I have been sufficiently censur'd perhaps unjustly enough; since 'tis not impossible for a man to love and hate, to be brave and bad. From the Criticks, whose fury I dread those Killmen and more then Jews; I appeal to your Lord­ship as the Saint did to Caesar. To you whose Iudgment vies remark with your Grandeiur, who are as absolutely Lord [Page] of Wit as those prevaricators are its slaves. To you who by excellent Read­ing and Conversation with the pleasantly wise, have justly limited the mighty Sal­lies of an overflowing Fancy. whose say­ings astonish the Censorious, and whose Writings are so exactly ingenious; Princes treasure them in their Memory, as things Divine. This is so far from flattery or untruth, that it appears rather an imper­tinent kind of asserting what every Man knows, as if I should gravely tell the World 'tis day at noon; which I had ra­ther another should be smil'd at for, than he who is in highest Truth and lowest Hu­mility. My Lord,

Your Lordships Most Humble, and Obedient Servant, Nat. Lee.

The Persons.

Nero, Emperour of Rome
Mr. Hart.
Britannicus, true Heire of the Empire,
Mr. Mehun.
Petronius, Nero's Favorit,
Mr. Burt.
Otho, husband to Poppea,
Mr. Wintersal.
Piso, her Brother,
Mr. Lydal.
Seneca, Nero's Tutor,
Mr. Cartwrite.
Drusillus, Roman.
Mr. Clark.
Plautus. Roman.
Mr. Coysh.
Silvius. Roman.
Mr. Warson.
Mirmilon. Roman.
Mr. Powell.
Flavius. friend to Brittanicus
Mr. Harris.
Poppea, Otho's Wife married to Nero,
Mrs. Marshal.
Agrippina, The old Empress mother to Nero.
Mrs. Cory.
Octavia, Nero's first wife sister of Britannicus.
Mr Cox.
Cyara, Princess of Parthia, Mrs. of Britannicus
Mrs. Bowtel.
Syllana. Poppaea's confident.
Mrs. Vptiel.
Romans Gladiators.
Caligula's Ghost,
Mr. Griffin.

The Scene Rome.

The Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Haines.

GOOD Playes, and perfect Sense as scarce are grown,
As civil Women in this damn'd lewd Town.
Plain Sense, is despicable as plain Cloaths,
As English Hatts, Bone-lace, or woollen Hose;
'Tis your brisk fool that is your Men of Note;
Yonder he goes, in the the embroider'd Cote;
Such wenching eyes, and hands so prone to ruffle;
The gentile fling, the Trip and modish shuffle;
Salt soul and flame, as gay as any Prince
Thus Taggs and Silks, make up your Men of Sense.
I'm told that some are present here to day,
Who e're they see, resolve to Dam this Play,
So much wou'd interest with ill nature Sway;
But Ladies, you we hope, will prove more civil,
And charm these witts that Dam beyond the Devil:
Then let each Crittick here, all Hell-inherit,
You have attractions that can lay a Spirit.
A bloody fatal Play you'l see to night,
I vow to Gad, 'thas put me in a fright.
The meanest waiter huffs, looks Big, and struts,
Gives brest a blow, then hand on hilt he puts;
'Tis a fine Age, a tearing Thund'ring age,
Pray Heav'n, this Thund'ring does not erack the Stage:
This Play I like not now—
And yet for ought I know, it may be good,
But still I hate this fighting wounds, and blood,
Why, what the devil have I to do with honour,
Let Heroes Court her, I cry, Pox upon her;
All Tragedies i'Gad to me sound odly,
I can no more be serious, than you Godly.

THE TRAGEDY OF NERO.
ACT. I.

Scaen. I.

Otho. Sylvius. Cyara, Disguis'd.
SYLVIVS.
WHy dost thou droop, and hang thy pensive head?
As if there were no end of thy distress?
His sighs more frequent than the minutes are;
Tears hang upon his cheeks, like morning dews
On Roses: Yet I cannot blame thy grief.
Otho.
Sir, You amaze me with your sad relation.
That Fatal Night Prince Alamander fell,
I, and some more, were in our General's Tent.
[Page 2](Great Corbulus he's call'd) who with success,
Has often led our gallant Roman Troops,
Against your Parthian horse; as I remember,
'Twas midnight when our Scouts, all pale with fear,
Came, flying, with the news of your approach:
Our General undisturb'd, straight gave Command
That every Captain should his Charge perform,
With as much silence as was possible;
No Drums; no Trumpets Sounded, all was hush'd,
Order in whispers, was by all receiv'd:
So your Surprize was answered with Surprize,
And gain'd us, without the Victory;
For 'tis our custom frequently to sleep
Whole nights in arms, never to rest secure.
Cyara.
Our loss, indeed, was great; but Oh! that loss
Of losses, our dear Prince, surpasses all!
For him, our Court now mourns; Sorrow, like night,
Eternal night, spreads horror all around:
All Noble hearts are cover'd with despair;
For our bright Sun must never shine again.
Some dawn of hope we had, he might be here
A pris'ner, and unknown; but Fate decrees
We wall not be so happy.
Oth.
Sir, wherein
My service may prove beneficial,
Or yield you any comfort, pray command it.
Captives, of every sort, as time permits,
I'll bring before you: if your eye can read
A line, that's your Prince in any face,
Examin it to th' full. Mean while, be pleas'd
To take a strict Survey of all the Court,
The greatest, and most flourishing, on Earth.
Syl.
So every tongue reports it; a full Orb
Of matchless Glory, where your Emperor
Rules, like the Sun, and gives each noble, warmth.
Oth.
[Page 3]
Nothing appears, alas, as heretofore;
The darkness of his horrid vices, have
Eclips'd the glimmering rays of his frail virtue.
His cruelties, like birds of prey, have pick'd
All seeds of Nobleness from his false heart;
And now it lyes a sad dull lump of earth,
Impatient of wise councel, and reproof.
To day he dooms, his Mother to be slain;
Swears, that she plots against his Crown, and life:
Sentence is past, and the poor Queen's betray'd.
See where she comes.
Emperor, Octavia, Britanicus, Seneca, Drusillus, Piso, Plautus; Agrippina, led by two Virgins all in white, a Dagger, and bowl of Poyson carry'd before her: Courtiers, and Guards following. Britanicus kneels.
Cya.
O, Sylvius, I am lost! there, there he kneels;
My flames increase, my Soul new passions feels.
My flight from Parthia I'll no more regard;
All was too little, for so great reward.
Nero.
To me?
Plau.
Dread Sir, the Prince Britanicus.
Ne.
Say you?
Plau.
He kneels.
Ne.
Sir, would you ought with me?
Brit.
Not for my self, but for the Queen, thus low
I fall, and beg you would some pitty shew.
Cast from your brest, this rank and Poys'nous hate:
Alas, how many do repent too late?
In acts of Love, KINGS are best understood:
Hell makes some great; 'tis GOD-like to be good.
It is your Mother—
Oh that that Sacred name should not avert
Your wrath! nor, with its softness, melt your heart!
[Page 4]Your Mother 'tis, whom you command to bleed:
What will the cens'ring World think of this deed?
Ne.
Why, let it think: if Asses bray, must I
Regard? I say, again, that she shall dye.
Why is she not to Execution led?
She's plotting now. Drusillus, see her dead.
Sene.
If, for the guilty, we to Heav'n may pray,
Can you the Innocent —
Ne.
Old fool, away.
Brit.
Justice is robb'd, his sword & scales you move;
Sweet Mercy starts, and, striking, flyes above,
Where, to the Gods, such horrid tales of you
She does relate, as they can scarce think true:
Fate trembles, as she writes in her book;
Ev'n Iove, with horror of this fact, is shook,
New points his Thunder, brandishes ith' Ayr
Dread Lightning, and, and with Rome, intends a War.
Ne.
Let him begin; my purpose I'll maintain,
Though he should scorching showrs of Sulphur rain.
Though he stood near —
And from some neighbouring Cloud, did hurl down fire,
With fresh recruits of men, his arm I'ld tire,
And she, at last, should, spight of him expire.
Would he were here, to end the grand debate:
But why, with you, do I catipulate?
My word's an Oracle, and stands her Fate.
Octa.
Ah, Caesar, if you can thus cruel prove
To her, and lay aside all filial Love,
What must I then expect, who am your wife,
But that you, shortly too, should take my life?
By all the pleasures of our marriage bed —
Ne.
I swear, speak one word more, and thou art dead.
Brit.
Tyrant, this must not be, while I draw breath.
Ner.
then thou dy'st too,
Brit.
Lo, thus I brave my death.
Ne.
Ha! does he smile?
[Page 5]By all the Gods, I'll quickly change your mirth:
With my own hand, I'll cut thee from the earth.
Oth.
Dread Sir —
Ne.
Was ever such an insolence?
Brit.
Sir, what I did was in my own defence.
When e're I rise against Sacred head
In thought, may loads of Thunder strike me dead.
You are my Master, and Rome's Emperour;
May you live long, and make right use of pow'r.
Cya.
Guard him, you Gods, and save his innocence.
Ne.
So Sir: yet she shall dye. Go, take her hence.
Octa.
Oh, how my tender heart does Sympathise!
Grief stirkes me dumb, and pity fills my eyes.
Agr.
Thou savage Monster, seed of Rocks, more wild
More wild than the fierce Tygress, of her young beguil'd,
Barbarian! who in some dark cave wert bred,
Made drunk with poyson, with corruption fed,
Offspring of Hell! But, oh, my lab'ring mind
Cannot get vent, nor fit expressions find,
Why was I made so strong? Oh my accurst!
Grief swells me up, and yet I cannot burst.
Ne.
Why would she thus in torments here remain?
I pitty her: go put her out of pain.
Agr.
Tyrant, wherein have I deserv'd this base
And barbarous usage? — Oh my foul disgrace!
Ha! shall I tell it to the World, or dye,
And in my Vrn, let all in silence lye?
My Soul doth struggle, with its load of woes;
Woes much more horrid than those painful throws
My body felt, when first I brought to light
This cursed Son, now Basilisk, to sight.
Ne.
Am I to be obey'd? how dare you stay?
Furies and Hell! be gone, take her away.
Agr.
Oh stay a while, ere I lose my breath
Hear my last words; more dreadful than my death.
[Page 6]Bear me some winged GOD, and fix me High
On some tall Pyramid, that hits the Sky;
Place all the World, on the vast rounds below,
And make my voice so loud, that all may know:
This Monster, under Tyrian purple hid,
Did force a passage to his Mother's bed.
Where are thy dreadful bolts; (to Iove I call)
Strike Him, or me, amiss they cannot fall.
Oh horrid fact to tell! it wounds my ear:
The Day and Night together mingled were.
Monster of men, who altered nature's course,
The stream ran backwards, and found out the Source.
Nero.
The Beldame raves; Drusillus, take her hence:
All this is forg'd; Heav'n knows my innocence.
A moments respite I will not afford,
But when she's dead let Otho bring me word.
Exe. severally Nero & Agripp.
Manent Piso, Plautus, Mirmilon.
Piso.

Very well. Hark ye, Gentlemen, may we talk?

Plau.

Treason? No.

Pis.

Then I'll hold my peace.

Mir.

Faith, I know not, but there was a stranger here yes­terday hang'd, for looking suspitiously.

Pis.

Very good; 'twas an excellent memorandum; there­fore I'll shut my eyes, and not look at all, or hereafter al­ways in company were a Masque.

Plau.

Not so Sir if you tender your safety; such reservation argues thoughtfulness: now the Emperor can't endure a man that's given to meditation; hates a Philosopher, as much as he loves a Fidler; Seneca, to my knowledge, is bur­then to him; in my hearing, he call'd him crazy Caterpillar, and venerable Book-worm.

Mir.

Right, Plautus. Therefore, Piso,, be not thoughtful; 'tis dangerous. A friend of mine (heark ye) this morning, by the Emperor's Order, had his throat cut, for being thoughtful

Pi.
[Page 7]

The good Empress —

Plau.

How Sir?

Pis.

Well, the Empress then. Alas, how sudden, from the top of Glory—

Mir.

Alas? do you pity her then?

Pis.

I, Sir. Greatness and goodness are—

Plau.

What, Sir;

Pis.

I know not, nor where, unless in the other world.

Mir.

You weep, Piso, have a care, a sort of liquid Treason.

Piso.
'Twas your hair hit my eye, and caused this Rheum:
I'll to the Country again. Farewel, Gentlemen.
Long live the Emperor; that's no Treason.
Mir.

No, Sir no: Adieu, good Piso. He wears an honest heart.

Exeunt.

Scene, the Court.

Nero, Otho, Seneca, Drusillus, &c. Agrippina, dead.
Oth.
She is, as you would have her, ( Sir) no more:
See where she lyes, all stained with her own gore.
She said, an antient man bid her beware
Of ever seeing you made Emperor;
For you, at last, would cause her to be slain:
Then let me dye, she said, so he may Reign.
Ne.
How wisely, then did I her death Decree!
For 'twould have been a great impiety
To let her live, and mar the Prophecy.
Oth.
Choice of two deaths, by your command, we gave;
But She cry'd, both; a double death I'le have:
One poys'nous drop, for Heav'n, I would not sell;
Each drop will sink his Soul more deep in Hell.
[Page 8]In her right hand, the Dagger she did hold;
And with her left, she heav'd the Fatal gold,
And drunk the venom off: that being done,
Deep, in her brest, the keen Stilletto run:
With many wounds she made her bosom gay;
Her wounds like flood-gates, did themselves display;
Through which, life ran, in scarlet streams away.
Ne.
Remove her hence. My Soul now free does walk,
And shall no more be clogg'd with moral talk.
My Statue shall be made of lasting steel:
Before it, Lords of Rome shall humbly kneel.
Great Iulius and Augustus you adore;
And why not me who have their very pow'r?
To them you daily offer Sacrifice:
I am a GOD; my self I Canonize.
Sen.
'Mongst Gods their Glory shines now they are gone.
Because, with us, like Stars their virtues shone.
Ne.
Virtue's a name; Religion is a thing
Fitter to scare poor Priests, than daunt a KING.
Swift, as quick thought, through every art I range:
Who but a GOD, like me, could Sexes change?
Sporus be witness of my Mighty art;
Sporus, now Lady, once Lord of my heart.
At my command, the fragrant Winds do blow;
The willing floods in waves of balsom flow:
This hand does all the sweets of nature sow.
I ranksack Nature; all its treasures view;
Beings annihilate, and make a new:
All this can I, your God-like Nero, do.
Sen.
What Fiend is this which, in his brest, unspy'd,
Bears up his Soul on such large wings of pride?
Let me not dye for speaking what is true:
All this you would, but (alas!) canot do.
Ne.
Ha!
Sen.
[Page 9]
If you do well and noble acts Atchieve,
When e're you dye, all honest hearts will grieve;
Each Roman will, to after Ages tell
How good, how great, how excellent you fell;
VVhat pitty 'twas that you should dye so young!
Thus shall your honour sound from every tongue:
But, though your Fame survive, your body must
Rot, and be crumbled into common dust.
Each grain of which, because you once did Reign,
Will not turn gold, nor any lustre gain:
Yours, and the Beggars dust alike must pass
Instead of sand, to fill Times hour-glass.
Ne.
Gown-man, thou ly'st.—
The VVorld's eternal, and its Monarch, I:
Then how is't possible for me to dye,
Yet give me creature immortality?
If, when I leave this world, men should debate
The manner; Say, I did my self translate.
The glory of my God-head I will shrowd
Not in a Mantle, but in a perfum'd Cloud:
In smoak of Incense I will mount above,
And, in his Throne, take the right hand of Iove.
Sen.
O murd'ring pride, thou dost all reason kill!
You will have Altars too?
Nero.
Yes, Slave, I will;
Altars of Gold, in Chrystal Temples built:
No blood of Bulls, nor Goats, shall there be spilt;
Such course rank smoak may sooty VVLCAN please,
Pluto, or horned Pan; dull Deityes!
The best of humane gore shall wash my Shrine;
Neroes shall bleed, and they are half Divine.
In cases made of Diamond entire,
Stars shall instead of Lamps, lend their bright fire.
Each common God shall, in his turn, be Priest,
And for your lower world make his request:
[Page 10]Then offer up a grateful Sacrifice,
Kings heads, Queens hearts, and charming Virgins eyes.
Enter Petronius.
Sen.
O Heav'n! his blasphemies no limit have;
His bruitish impudence our Gods does brave:
Without controll he does their pow'r defy,
And I, like midnight hush'd, stand trembling by.
I'le speak, although he blast me with his breath;
Repentance too may win him for my death.
Dread Sir, if you would please —
Ne.
Fond preacher, hence.
Gods! can I still endure his insolence?
Guards, seize him; go, let him in prison howl,
And solace there his melancholly soul.
Ex. Oth. Sen. & Guards.
But, dear Petronius, how shall I requite
Thee, who sole author art of my delight?
When my heart sickens, still thou bring'st me ease,
And dost my fancy, with new Objects, please.
Pet.
To sooth your soul, ruffl'd with this late storm,
My care found out so sweet, so rare a form,
So full of blooming graces, in each part,
As well deserves the conquest of your heart.
Not purple Violets, ith' early spring,
Such graceful sweet such tender beauties bring.
The Orient blush which does her cheeks adorn
Makes Coral pale, vies with the Rosy morn.
Not Venus, sprung from the Seas snowy foam,
Neptunes bright Seed, her whiteness can or'e come.
Cupid has took a surfeit from her eyes;
When e're she smiles, in Lambent fire he fries:
And when she weeps, in pearls dissolved he dyes.
Ne.
Hold, hold; I am o'recharged with this excess:
Thy deeds are great; but make thy boasting less.
What is her name? and where does she lye hid?
Pet.
She's the partner of Lord Otho's bed;
[Page 11] Poppea nam'd: with gold I brib'd her maid,
For which the easie slave her trust betray'd.
Not far from Rome this Beauty does reside;
Chaste she is thought, because yet never try'd.
Her quick black eye does wander with desire,
And, if I judge aright, bears wanton fire.
Oft as Syllana told me, when to Court
Her Lord was gone, eager of unknown sport,
She'd sigh, and in her bosom hide her face;
And with fierce action would the wench embrace.
Dress'd like DIANA, she in Woods is fear'd,
And gives swift chase to all the Savage herd:
With vigour masculine she rides along,
Her Quiver, full of shafts, behind her hung;
Her right hand holds a Dart, her left a Bow;
Her long black locks, on her fair shoulders flow,
As thick'ning clouds o're the Sun's brightness grow.
Ne.
Thou dear procurer of my most loved joyes,
Fly, fly; the least delay my life destroyes.
Now try thy skill; this is indeed a task:
Win her, and thou hast more than thou canst ask.
Exit Petronius.
Let phlegmatick dull KINGS, call Crowns their care:
Mine is my wanton; and does Beauties share
Above my Mistress Eyes. On, Nero, on;
Spend thy vast stock, and riot in thy Throne.
If there be pleasure yet I have not found,
Name it, some GOD: 'Tis mine, though under ground:
No nook of Hell shall hide it from my sight,
But I will conjure't into open light.
My Scepter, like a charming rod, shall raise
Such sports, as would old Epicures amaze:
Pleasures so rich, so various, and so new,
As never yet the Gods, my great fore-fathers, knew.
Exit.
Finis Actus primi.

Actus II.

Scena I.

Drusillus and a Roman.
Drusil.
BArb'rous. and horrid! O, the raging Fiend,
When will his black impieties have end?
The great, the wise, the worthy Seneca
Is, by this Bloody Monster made away.
Poor City! whither are thy Founders fled,
To what low distance Regions of the dead,
That at their Country's call they will not rise,
And this ungovern'd Tyrants rage chastise?
Ro.
I saw the best and wisest of mankind,
The Pilot of the will, the guide oth' mind,
Dying and pale; from every gen'rous vein
Base Executioners his life did drain;
By Nero kill'd, by Nero whom he lov'd;
Whose youth by painful studies he improv'd,
And warm'd so long the viper in her brest
That the kind Host was poyson'd by the guest.
Dru.
In vain we mourn: some noble Roman should
Dare to be glorious, dangerously good,
And kill this Tyrant; kill him gorg'd with wine,
Forcing a day, and making black night shine,
Debauch'd, and sordidly ambitious grown,
Midst all his Revels, would the deed were done.
Ro.
Guilt, the mind's wild-fire, lick his Spirits up;
Press him good GODS, press him, until he droop,
Sink, and be damn'd, beneath the lowest Hell:
After his death we may in safety dwell.
Dru.
But, while he lives, no honest Roman may
Pass night in rest, or view one peaceful day.
Exeunt.

Scoe. II. The Country.

Otho, Poppea, Petronius, Piso.
Petr.
WHy should such God-like forms inhabit here,
And bless th' ignoble sort?
Otho
Pr'ythee, no more:
She sha' not go to Court; ther's discord in't.
Pet.
Now by your Lady's lovely eyes I swear,
That Country sounds not half so well to me.
Is it more harmony to hear a Clown
Whistle his dull Tunes, which you construe solemn,
Than see a Lady softly touch her Lute,
And breath an Ayr to the melodious strings?
Her beauty and her voice so ravishing,
That each Spectators Soul is left in doubt
Where first to mount, into the eye or ear.
The Court!
Now, by my Honor, dearer than my life;
And, as I action love, I think the Court
May well be tearmed the Noble Rendesvous
Of Gallant Spirits: 'tis a Circle, Sir,
Oth.
More I'le allow, it is a golden Circle;
But, like the Carthaginian Hero's KING,
It carries poyson: 'tis a fatal Circle;
Upon whose Magick skirts, a thousand Devils,
In Chrystal forms, fit tempting innocence,
And becken early Virtue from its Center.
Piso.
Now, by my life, I think you councel ill.
I view thee, and oth' sudden, somthing calls
Thee Traytor,
Brother, I never lov'd this man; that's all.
Exit.
Ot.
Why should you lose me on a bare suspicion?
The Gods ram curses on me, thick as Hail,
If e're I harbour'd, in this brest, a thought
But what was Noble, of your spotly loves.
I must be bold to say, yo've done me wrong;
[Page 14]And, but I have by Oath inviolable
Sworn you a friendship firm as Destiny,
Protecting you and yours, I should not thus
Tamely put up your angry Brother's terms.
Oth.
Your pardon, generous friend, he was too blame;
Let my repentance set all right again:
Indeed I am asham'd for what was past.
Pet.
See, our contention has disturb'd your Lady,
And call'd the precious dew into her eyes.
Oth.
No more, my dear; nay, if thou lov'st me, cease.
Pet.
I wonder that the Emperor's so long!
I wrote to have him call Otho to Court,
Imploy him there, and come in person hither.
Exeunt.

Scaen. 3. The Court.

Octavia, Britannicus.
Octa.
AH, dearest Brother, be not too secure;
Syrens most dreadful are, when they allure:
I dread him most, since your last Noble strife,
And fear he is plotting 'gainst your precious life,
Of which you ought to have a tender care,
Because your Sister claims so deep a share;
For, hear me, Gods, the doom which you decree
This gallant Prince, shall prove my Destiny.
Brit,
Fear not my life; he cannot be so base.
I have some friends, that all his mischiefs trace:
If ought against me move, their care will find.
Some means to let me know what is design'd.
Oct.
HEAV'N ever shield you from his violence:
His kindness, to you, is but meer pretence,
And if he smiles, 'tis at your innocence.
The Chrystal of his eye is clouded 'ore
That his dark thoughts my Genius can't explore.
E're while I met him,
[Page 15]The Fates sit working on his gather'd brows;
Slow steps he takes, and murmurs as he goes,
Starts, and sixt looks upon the Terra's throws.
Brit.
Mild as calm Martyrs, I could death receive;
Two reasons, only, make me wish to live:
Two debts remain to pay, most Nobly due:
Love claims the first, t'other I owe to you.
Oct.
Within your breast does Love chief Regent stand?
I thought that reason there had sole command.
Brit.
Never was heart so pittifully kind,
So capable of Love's impression made;
We me, all Beauties gentle usage find:
The humble, charm; the mighty do invade.
Last Year, unknown to Parthia I did go,
And view'd the Court; beheld the gallant foe
Of ROME, Prince of Alamander, whose great Name
Sound loud, and almost cracks the cheeks of Fame.
Bellona then, as Goddess of our Arms,
I did Adore; but soon felt softer charms:
The curious Prince wirhin my looks did find
Something that wrought upon his Noble mind,
Discours'd me, call'd me friend, and did confess
He never lov'd a man to such excess.
One day, (Oh day most fatal to my rest!)
After a thousand kindnesses exprest,
He took me by the hand, and gently said,
Dear friend, there is a young and noble Maid
That fain would see you. Bowing, I reply'd,
Sir, I am yours, and to your service ty'd.
Oct.
Your story yet has no great cause to fright.
Brit.
At length, we came,; but such a Glorious sight,
Such a bright flux of rayes on tender sense,
Such charming softness, such sweet excellence,
Word may describe, but never can define!
The Sun ne'r saw an object so Divine!
Fancy can't reach it! above fiction fair!
All the sweet lines of Beauty center'd there.
[Page 16]Unlike to Caesar's was my amorous Doom,,
I came, I saw, but was my self o'recome.
It was his Sister,
Cyara nam'd, that Royal charming Maid;
My soul was rapt with joy, though shook with dread:
So Angels, when they stoop to mortal sight,
Strike us with awe, yet ravish with delight.
Oct.
Why did you not your noble Love declare?
I did; but first committed to her ear
The secret of my birth, which she receiv'd
VVith modest joy, and generously believ'd.
Our Loves too happy were to flourish long,
Frost-nipt i'th' bud, they wither'd as they hung.
Some Roman slave, I know not whom nor where,
Gave the old KING private intelligence;
But the young Prince most watchful, sent me word,
Hastn'd my flight, and would not time afford
To hear my thanks: ungrateful so I came
To ROME, but nourish'd still my former flame.
Enter Cyara, and Silvius, at one door; the Emperour and Plautus at another.
Cya.
YOnder he stands, the GOD's great Master-piece!
Oh, I could ever on that Object gaze,
And lose my Senses in that goodly maze!
VVith gay and vig'rous youth his eyes are Crown'd,
Presence, and Manly graces, all around
His Noble form, do make their bright abode,
Like beams of Lustre circling in a GOD.
Nero.
He dyes, that bold Controller of my will;
He has Oblig'd me so, that I must kill.
VVhy, with dull thoughts, do I my fancy pall?
VVhen I look sad, whole Hecatombs should fall.
Ha! who are they? my fretting blood does rise:
Hands, rest; I'le try to blast him, with my eyes.
[Page 17]Make me Basilisk, but one short hour,
Some GOD, that would be Nero's Emperour.
Plau.
Oh you just Powr's! where is Astrea fled?
Foul vice Triumphs, trampling on Virtues head.
Here Fam'd Democritus his teeth might show,
And Heracletus might his tears bestow.
Nero.
I hate him deadly,
As poverty, diseases, or old age;
For his wish'd death, my Empire I'le engage.
Not Hell, nor Heav'n my fierce resolves shall daunt:
First, I will Act; then I'le think upon't.
Octavia, follow me.
Exit Ambo.
Brit.
What does he mean?
He frowns on me, and smiles upon the Queen.
These ruddy drops some say ill Omens are:
Gods, be my guard; but 'tis not worth my care.
I bleed within; there, there's the mortal wound,
For which no cure no Balsom can be found.
In dreams, Cyara, I behold thy charms,
With fix'd imagination of high pleasure,
Thy beauteous form shall flow into my arms
And I embrace it as a real Treasure.
Exit.
Cya.
How dull this place appears now he is gone!
Night's Emblem, it bemoans the absent SUN.
Sylvia.
Madam, 'tis fit you should discover now;
Put off the cloud, and fair Cyara show.
Cya.
E're I reveal my self, his love I'le try.
Syl.
You doubt him.
Cya.
No it is curiosity.
Exeunt.
Nero, Octovia.
Ne.
Your Sentence dooms me to be curst, or blest;
Can you deny me? 'tis my first request:
[Page 18]All things are easie to a willing mind:
'Tis quickly done, if you will prove but kind.
Oct.
My soul doth with convulsive horror shake;
Name it again, for sure I did mistake.
Ne.
That you, the Prince, your Brother's blood would spill;
No matter how, so you but swear to kill.
Here with my Dagger, let the deed be done:
You often find him sleeping, and alone.
Oct.
Sleeping! Oh Gods, can You your vengeance keep?
Where is your Thunder? No, 'tis you that sleep:
Sure else, your Justice would his vice confound,
And drive this Monster quick into the ground.
Hell to his soul such impudence has giv'n,
That, he in time, will storm your fort of Heav'n:
In blasphemies his spirits do exhale;
Your high bright walls his Gyant crimes will scale.
Oh, my heart's full.
(Stabs her.)
Ne.
Here's that will give it vent.
So, now go tell the Gods my black intent.
Britannicus his death I will defer;
'Tis pretty well I've made an end of her.
Now I will haste to meet Poppea's arms.
Oh, Love, assist me with thy mighty charms,
And I will raise thy wanton Altars high'r;
Old men, and Eunuchs, shall in heaps expire,
Because uncapable of thy soft fire.
This day my fatal brow no clouds shall wear;
Till I return, Rome lay aside thy fear:
I, and the Gods of VVit, smile once a year.
Exit.
Oct.
O my Britannicus, my Brother! — Oh,
Might I but see thee once yet, ere I go,
And wander in the wide dark dens of death:
But, Oh! my Soul is almost of breath.
[Page 19] Enter Britannicus.
Brit.
He sent me here; for what, I can't devise.
Oct.
Ah me, look here, with pitty glut thy eyes.
Now I am well: for thy sake I would live.
My dear, my gentle Brother, do not grieve.
Brit.
Gods! Gods! but they are deaf, or will not hear.
No hopes of Life? Oh my prophetick fear!
Sigh heart, weep eyes; I draw each Chrystal spring:
But 'tis my blood must be thy offering.
Oct.
Hold, hold; Cyara 'tis Cyara's call:
My share I give to her she claims you all.
Give me your Sword: So now I've lost my fears:
You weep too much, and yet I love those tears.
It was a gen'rous proffer, 'twas indeed:
Upon thy bosom let me rest my head;
'Tis a soft pillow sweetly now I rest,
And sigh my Soul into thy gentle brest.
(Dyes.)
Brit.
Oh stay, my dear, my most lov'd Sister, stay;
But one word more. Her soul is on its way:
She's gone, she's gone; thou flowry sweet farewell.
Oh where, to whom shall I my sorrows tell!
In every grove and melancholly bow're
Thy sad untimely loss I will deplore;
Thy name's dear Character each Tree shall bear;
On every letter I will drop a tear.
How quickly fate our fairest hopes beguiles!
Oh, thou short solace of my many ills,
Adieu! Adieu my Star, my dearest Light!
Now thou art gone, I am all dark, all night:
One lump I grow, and know not how I move;
All sad, and gloomy, as the eyes of Love.
Trust me, thy sweetness I shall ne're forget;
Stiff, with my sorrows, on thy Tomb I'le sit,
Till I, at last, into cold Marble turn,
And, with my Pious figure, grace thy Vrn.
Exit.
Finis Actus II.

Actus III.

Scena I.

Britannicus with a Boy.
Brit.
WHat is this Earth to me? why do I stay,
Since thou, my Joy, my dear Octavia,
Art ravish'd hence? To Parthia I will,
And in thy presence, fair Cyara, dye:
My only comforts on thy truth depend;
If thou art chang'd, my grief shall have an end.
Go Sing the Song without.
Song.
WEep, weep, you Muses, drain the Springs,
Such Notes go warble to the strings,
Such Dirges as the Ravens sound
When Ghosts run trembling through the ground:
The fairest of her Sex is dead,
Her tender limbs are wrap'd in lead;
Her eyes, stars envy, the Earth' pride,
The broad black hand of Death does hide;
In Death's dark chamber, now she lyes,
Pale as the Snow, and cold as Ice.
Chorus.
The grave, the lovly grave will bring us ease,
There we shall sweetly sleep in downy peace;
[Page 21]There no distractions, nor jealousies ce,
But all from inord'nate passions are free:
The cold Tomb is free from hot love and desire;
It has ashes good store, but admits of no fire:
There men do never groan, nor women cry,
But all things, hush'd, in solemn silence lie.
Bri.
Enough, enough. Oh, my sick heart, not yet!
Break, break, for shame, let Nature have her debt.
Cyara, Sylvius.
Cya.
Withdraw good Sylvius. How sad he looks!
Was ever man so goodly? Oh my heart,
Bear up! and yet I dare not speak to him.
If there be any charms in womens tongues,
If there be any words that can infuse
Soft love into a bosom, and create
A gentle passion, good Heav'n grant it me.
Sir, may I interrupt, without offence,
Your serious thoughts? I've something to relate
Which is your near concern.
Brit.
Mine, pretty Sir?
Say on, I hear you. What should his business be?
Cya.
'Tis from a Lady, who made me her Agent,
A sorry one, I fear, and much unable
To tell what she commanded me; a story
So lamentable, that I cannot think on't,
But straight my eyes o'reflow with tears: pardon me,
Only a little respite, I'le go on.
Brit.
Thou raisest somthing in me, which as yet
I cannot give a name to. What can this mean?
Cya.
CYARA, SIR, the Parthian Princess.
Brit.
Ha!
Com'st thou from her? a thousand blessings on thee.
Cya.
[Page 22]
A thousand curses, rather, for my news.
My name's Coralbo, her unhappy kinsman,
To my poor faith she did the mighty honour
Of telling the sad stories of your Loves.
It was her chance, a dismall chance indeed,
That nay you fled, as she was sitting at
The Palace window, striking of her Lute,
Thoughtful, and Virgin-like, alone, to cast
Her eye upon your person; strait she blush'd,
Wondring to see you in that equipage;
But soon her Brother did unriddle all:
Amazement seiz'd her first; but when the Prince
Was gone, she loos'd the rains, grief had full stopt:
She trembled, fetch'd heart-breaking sighs,
As if her eyes were springs; she made complaints
So languishing, and with so sad an accent,
I wonder that it kill'd her not till now.
Brit
I hope you come not to abuse me.
By Heav'n, if you do —
Cya.
Indeed I do not:
Let that convince you, if you know her hand.
I find he's Noble, his looks are chang'd oth' sudden;
I fear I've gone too far. How do you, Sir?
Brit.
Well, Boy. O GODS! Devils! Hell, Heaven and Earth!
Reads.
If in the other world, I can behold ought here, it will be you, pray love my memory: 'twill be a satisfaction above the thoughts of Paradise, to your dying Cyara.
I feel a mortal trembling shot a long
My Arteries! I'm cold! Octavia! Cyara! Oh!
(Falls)
Cya.
Help, help; my Lord, Cyara lives; return.
What have I done? upon thy dying lips
I'le print my soul, but I'le bring back thy life.
Fool that I was, for a fancy, thus
To play away that Pearl, for which I would
[Page 23]Have sold my breath, my vital Spirits, my all.
O, he returns. Cyara is not dead:
Look up, my Lord; do you not know this face?
Brit.
Cyara! Heav'ns, 'tis she! Thou charming fair,
How am I ravish'd with thy Glorious presence!
O, who would live on Earth, sultry and hot,
Under a load of care, did he once taste
The pleasures of these cool immortal shades?
O the refreshing sweets which the winds blow
From ever-budding flowers eternal Spring!
Cya.
Where, Sir?
Brit.
Why, here, in blest Elizium.
Cya.
O he is lost, distracted!
Brit.
Look, look, my dear, pr'y thee let's walk along,
The grass does shine with more Emerald green,
Each purling brook like liquid plate appears,
And every pebble seems a Diamond;
Fall burnish'd trees with fruit of massy Gold!
Upon whose boughs, all fair and Heav'nly forms
Sit sweetly warbling to their Loves below.
See yonder's Octavia, my Sister, look,
Pale and forlorn, in a close gloomy,
Her Ayry substance thus I will condense
And to squeeze water, 'cause I cannot weep.
Cya.
Ah Prince, Cyara lives, and I am she.
Brit.
Thou art a lying Boy: O Gods, my head!
Cya.
Do you not know me, Sir? Look wistly on me.
Brit.
Cyara's Picture! just such charming eyes!
Such snowy hands, such lips, such winning smiles!
Such tenderness! such was her every Grace!
But Oh! you told a false, a fatal tale,
The accent of thy voice is different:
She could not lye, for she was all perfection:
All beauty sickned when she left the world.
Cyara, Oh thou fair one! Glorious Saint,
Thou could'st not dye for me, desertless me.
Cya.
[Page 24]
She is not dead, but lives, and loves you, Sir.
Brit.
Thou dost associate with Lawyers sure,
And Travellers.
Cya.
Who I, Sir? why?
Brit.
Because
Thou lyest extreamly, Boy: No, she is dead;
The canopy of Heav'n is hung with Sable;
The Sun, like a great mourner, drives her Hearse,
Wrap'd round with clouds; each Star withdraws
His Golden head, and burns within his socket
The whole cope is dark, black, dismal,
And mourns the sudden loss of fair Cyara.
Ha! shough; yonder flyes a night-Raven
In each black eye there rowls a pound of Jet.
See how he fans, with his huge wicker wings
The dusky Ayr. Come, boy, be gone
I'le save thee, though I dye me self: go in:
Run, run, I say, I'le fetch my Bow and shoot him.
Exeunt.

Scaen. The Country.

Petronius, Poppea. Piso, over-hearing.
Pop.
I must not hear you, Sir.
Petr.
Can you despise
A flame, whose matchless splendor drowns the Stars,
And lustre vies with the great eye of Day?
O, scrupulous Virtue, art thou grown so cold
That the reflected beams of doubled Honours,
Beating upon thee with incessant Glories,
Cannot approach thee, through thy walls of Ice?
With all their fiery points, cannot once pierce thee?
Pop.
High minds should not be tempted with appearance,
Nor drown to dangerous courses from homely Cells,
Where honest pleasure with safe plenty dwells.
Pet.
[Page 25]
But what converse, what Nobleness is here
To deck your thoughts, that claim a vaster Sphere;
Through all the Heav'n they should, like Eagles, roam,
Not stay in such a solitary home.
Pop.
What unknown guests are these that tear my brest?
Like slaves, in golden mines, they dig their way:
A Crown they shew, which my frail heart Adores;
Before my thoughts, a Royal Scepter flyes,
At which, my fancy grasps, but when it comes
And it bright glories offer to my hand,
I fain would reach, and yet refuse to hold.
Petr.
Madam, consider 'tis a mighty proffer;
'Tis not this Province, or that Colony;
He gives you all: all is a gift so great,
As none but Iove to Caesar can bestow.
What is it deters you from your happiness?
Pop.
Oh, I am lost in Honours Labrynth,
No clew to guide me, but my own desire,
And that would lead me out, but knows not how.
Piso.

Oh Heaven, what will this earth come to! Was it for this my noble Brother was sent for in so much haste? and is it for this, he harbours that Viper in our house, to tear his Darling hence, and eat his heart out? O Laws of hospitality, why are you Sacred? why is my hand so backward to pu­nish that ravisher of our Honour?

Methinks I see that Genius of our house
Start from his Monument, and stalk along
Shaking with Panick fears, and with an eye
That Darts its poyson'd beams of Indignation
At me: me thinks I see him chide my slow
Revenge.
Pop.
My brother has lost his Senses.
Piso.
I would I had, and with thm lost my life,
So thou could'st find thy honour: Oh thy Honour!
More worth, than all that golden Pageantry,
High tops of Fortune, Glorious Pinacles,
[Page 26]And Heav'n knows what, that swim in thy fond faney:
Those wanton Sepulchers have swallowed it;
Thy eyes, those graves of Nobleness and Glory
I've known the time, when, had I look'd but thus,
Thus curiously upon thee, straight a blush
Would mount in to thy cheek: there's nothing now
But pale dishonour. Prithee do not speak,
Thy words are pestilent, the blasting issue
Of a corrupted heart, diseas'd, and deadly.
Pop.
How should he know this? sure he over heard
Petronius talking with me: 't must be so.
But pray why is't a sin to go to Court?
I am not guilty of one wicked thought,
And yet you make me a most wretched creature.
Piso.
Indeed thou art a sinful wretched creature;
Thou art the wretched'st thing I ever saw:
Thy blood is all o' fire; the Emperour,
That Dog-star has inflam'd it; I pity thee.
O that my tears could make thy heart relent,
Or quench those fires that will devour thee;
Then I would drain those Chrystal Sources dry:
Rivers I'de weep, and long luxuriant streams,
My eyes should play the Wantons, not thy way.
If thou hast any sense of shame, look back;
Thy feet upon the brink of ruin stand;
But one step more, and thou art lost for ever:
Glorious destruction, glitt'ring miseries,
Will keep thee waking till death close thy eyes.
Weeps.
Petr.
Fie, fie, my Lord; were your surmises true,
This is too much: it shows unmanly.
Piso.
Ha!
It will not be: rather than suffer this,
Let me be ever branded, base, and barbarous.
My rage is kindled, and I'le bear no more.
Begone, thou Monster, fly, thou Harpy, fly;
[Page 27]Put on thy wings of horror, and be gone,
Or, by my Honour, were this house a Temple,
Thy base black blood should stain the sacred floor.
Ex. Petro. and Poppea smiling on him.
Peso.
I am troubled; yet there is one way left:
Revenge, revenge! O thou art sweet and lovely!
I'le go to ROME, and with wrong'd Otho joyn.
Trumpet sounds.
What means this noise?
Servants running over the Stage.
Within. The Emperour, the Emperour!
Plau.
The Emperour, my Lord, is come in person hither.
Piso.
Ha! is it so? then all fond hopes farewel:
Diseases be his welcome. O, I am mad.
This night he whore's my Sister. Hell, hear my pray'r!
Despair, Revenge, and Murther, come along:
Bring you all your cursed crew and come along:
In fatal business I'le employ you all,
With this sole arm Heav'ns vengeance I'le forestall:
An act so great, pale Brutus shall desire
To see Cato and Cassius, shall admire.
Start not, my Soul, but do't; Poppea dyes,
My anger's Victim, Honour's Sacrifice.
Her Beauties, so ador'd so much admir'd,
With pride and sensual pleasure so inspir'd,
Shall in a moment sicken, fade, and fall;
Like the North-wind, I'le rush, and blast you all.
Nero, prepare; for, when so're I come,
Immortal as thou art, I bring thy doom.
I'le make that Cedar tremble like a reed:
Nero shall dye; that vaunting God shall bleed.
Exit.
The Scene changes. Alter a Song, the Emperour comes in Royally attended, bowing to Poppea &c. Petronius.
Nero.
Model of Heav'n thou Ornament of Earth,
Propitious Star that smiles on humane birth!
[Page 28]Or art thou Goddess of the silver floods?
Or the fair Heav'nly Huntress of these woods?
Or art thou Venus? Venus wants such fire,
When by the Graces, drest in bright attire,
She hasts to meet her Noble warrior's Arms:
Venus, in height of dalliance, wants such Charms.
Such beauty never was by Paris seen;
Such conqu'ring Ayr, and such Majestick meen.
O, Most Divine! with pity bless my flame.
Pop.
Be not deluded, Sir; I mortal am.
Ne.
If thou of mortal seed art born, be mine,
And I will make thee
More happy, than those pow'rs we call Divine.
To please thy sense, and ravish thy soft pow'rs,
I'le make such Grotto's springs, and Royal Bowr's,
As shall transcend the blest Elizian shade,
Tempe's fair grave and Ida's flow'ry head,
Where the Gods meet, and Dance in Masquerade.
For Baths, we will Hydaspes current lave,
Lie close incircl'd in a Golden wave:
Thou Queen Triumphant; I thy humble slave.
Loe, at thy feet, Nero himself does lie,
He that commands the Earth, the Sea, the Skie,
For love of thee, does languish, sigh, and die.
Pop.
Is all this true? can you do all these things?
Good Heav'n what happy creatures are you KINGS!
Nero.
If thy heart bears such softness as thy brest,
Then I am happy, then I'm truly blest.
All my dear Joys are treasur'd in those eyes,
Those kinder Stars, those Suns of Paradise.
Without thy smiles, alas, I nothing am,
But the poor shaddow of a mighty name.
Pop.
How my souls rack'd, with joy and anxious fear!
Fain I would go, and yet would tarry here.
Whence do these new desires and wishes come?
Fain I would see I know not what, nor whom.
[Page 29]How rarely this KING talks! how far above
My Lord's grave rules of duty and of love!
Nero.
About thy knees, O, let me ever grow.
Pop.
Why do you weep?
Oero.
My eyes shall ever flow:
Or, if these tender sources should decay,
My thawing soul shall melt it self away.
O stay: I'le follow thus, if you remove,
And hold thee fast with all the force of love.
Pop.
Why is my heart in its resolves, so slow?
Like a fond child, when two gay things you show,
With wondring eyes it looks, does leap, and quake
For both; yet, doubtful, neither can partake.
Heav'ns! how he pants! how his lips warm my hand!
Nero
They draw their heat from this warm firebrand.
Petr.
She yields, she yields! her looks her thoughts betray!
Greatness is entred, and her soul gives way.
Follow her still, and let her take no rest:
She thinks it pleasure to be so opprest.
Pop.
What must the price of all these pleasures be?
Nature's choice offring, Art's variety
Of noisy shows, and mighty Gallantry!
Nero.
The price of all, is but thy gentle love.
Secure, in Heav'n, as Iuno keeps her Iove,
Thou shalt keep me, fetter'd in golden chains;
The soft sad story of my pleasing pains,
In sighs upon thy bosom I'le relate;
Thy Beauty'es creature, thou my Glories fate.
Drawn in a Chair of Gold, emboss'd all o're
With their great Images whom we adore,
On velvet floors Triumphant thou shalt ride,
Princes shall run like pages, by thy side:
The Sun shall, from his flaming seat, look down,
And of the Thund'rer, ask a brighter Throne,
While all the Gods do blush
To see their art, by mortal wit out-done.
Pop.
[Page 30]
And will you do all this for love of me?
Are there such charms in my society?
Nero
But one short night let me your love enjoy,
And I, next mornig, will my life destroy.
Pop.
Indeed you shall not; that were too severe.
Nay, if you love me, pray live all the year.
For fancy, I substantial pleasure reap
Is that all? 'Tis very cheap.
Tell me not what my duty does require;
Love mans me now, and shows his sacred fire:
To Crowns, those mighty objects I aspire.
If you dare do, as you have said, lead on:
Pale piety, Adieu; live here alone,
While I go taste the pleasues of a Throne.
Nero.
Our Chariots haste: yet stay, I will not go.
Thou abstract of all sweets, thou melter, Oh
Gods! 'tis too much Joy has my Soul distrest,
Weary'd with raptures, take it to thy brest,
On those soft Globes of beauty let it rest.
Kind God of Love, O bring thy mother's Doves,
And waft us through the calm Celestial groves,
Surfeiting on each other's brest wee'l stray;
When we want words, and know not what to say,
With eyes thus languishing wee'll look all day:
Now sigh, now smile, or thus infolded lie,
And all along the Milky way wee'll die.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus Tertij.

Act. IV.

Scae. I.

Nero, Poppea, sitting in State.
Nero.
LEt not my Crown and self thy wish confine:
Ask what thou wilt; by all the Gods, 'tis thine.
Be studied in't, and Ile applaud thee for't:
Mean while, behold the pleasures of our Court.
Dance &c.
Enter Britannicus, Mad: and Cyara.
Pop.
O, my dread Lord, for these let me implore.
Nero.
Live, wretches, and this Excellence adore.
Brit.
Stay me not? by the Gods, I'le break your hold.
So sad a story, Orpheus never told,
When his harmonious sighs pierc'd Pluto's gate;
But I ban Heav'n, curse the Great Gods, and Fate.
And yet I will not speak, the theam's too stern;
Here Hell it self might witty horror learn.
Some whirl-wind snatch me headlong through the Ayr,
Wrapt round with clouds invelop'd in despair,
That I from Earth may hide this dismal deed:
Honour is stabb'd, and all the Virtues bleed.
Cyara's faln, Octavia too is gone;
In Death's damp vaults she wanders all alone:
I saw her Soul dive strangely through the ground,
In her own blood that spark of Heav'n was drown'd:
Treason against the Gods he did conspire;
Oh Traytor, worse than he that stole their fire!
Nero.
Who was that Traytor, Prince?
Brit.
I know not, Sir,
Unless that Dog that was her Murderer.
Nero.
Who was that Dog?
Brit.
[Page 32]
Why, Cerberus I guess;
No Savage else could hurt such gentleness.
Such meekness would wilde Panthers fury charm,
And hungry Lyons of their rage disarm;
Ev'n o're their prey, it would the conquest get,
Quell their swoln hearts, and cool their bloody heat.
Nero.
Madman begone.
Brit.
This madman is a Prince.
Nero.
I say again, forbear this insolence,
Or thou shalt wish thou wert a Beggar born:
At once, thou mov'st my pity and my scorn.
Brit.
'Twas you that kill'd my Sister.
Nero.
Ha! thou ly'st:
Stand not my rage; for, if thou dost, thou dy'st.
Brit.
Then I will sit, and hear your Thunder roar;
Such humble shrubs it hurts not, but flyes o're.
Nero.
But you shall find, for once, 'twill condescend:
I pity thee, and will thy sorrows end.
Cya.
Hold; by the Gods, I do conjure you, stay:
First through my bosom force your bloody way.
In policy you ought his life to spare;
For, if you let him live, Heav'n will forbear
To punish you, nor will due vengeance take;
The just good Gods will spare you, for his sake.
Brit.
How the Boy prattles! 'tis a pretty Boy!
Cyara's Image! how that damps my Joy!
What mean these two, by such an antick form?
Here's a soft calm, and there a blustring storm.
My Painter so shall draw me day and night:
Here horrid darkness stands; there, gaudy light:
There, cruelty, like the red Sea appears;
Here, melting mercy flows in pitying tears.
Exquisite Emblems! perfect good and evil:
A Heav'n, a Hell, an Angel, and a Devil.
Nero.
If I gaze long, I shall my nature lose:
Mid'st of my full carreer, I stop and muse.
[Page 33]Whence does this poor unworthy pause proceed?
Can I repent my rage? No, he shall bleed.
Cya.
Hold Sir, you cannot strike.
Nero.
How? cannot, Boy?
Cya.
Alas, I ly'd; I know you can destroy:
You can do all things, Sir, both drown and burn;
Nay, the whole World to its first Chaos turn.
You are a God to damn, a King to kill:
You can do all things, if had the will.
But you are kind, and soft; I know you are;
Your eyes are Noble, and delight to spare.
O Heav'n! how Men will lye! nay, now I find
You have a gentle, Great, and GOD-like mind.
The Prince is Mad, and you are pleas'd to see't,
Na,y pardon all, — O let me kiss your feet.
You'll win all hearts, by such kind acts as these;
With my warm tears I'le bath your sacred knees.
Nero.
Shall I be branded with the name of good?
Begone, thou soft invader of my blood;
Mercy and I, no correspondence have;
Pity's a whining tender-hearted slave:
Fury I love, because she's bold and brave.
As I scan things, Virtue's the greatest crime:
Stand off; or I will pass through thee, to to him.
[kills her.]
Pop.
Hold, Caesar, now I take you at your word;
If you will keep your promise, sheath your sword.
Nero.
'Twere less to give the world, than let him live;
Yet your commands with Joy I do receive.
Brit.
What barbarous hand has done this horrid deed?
Oh, my dear Boy, look up; thou dost not bleed.
Stop, stop, thou bloody Spring; my hair perforce
Shall bind thee, and damn up the Scarlet source:
I will my self thy kind Phisician be;
When I was sick, thou still wert so to me:
[Page 34]At my bed side, strict watch all night he'ld keep,
And, with his Songs, rock my dull cares a sleep.
His cheeks are pale! Roses, look forth again,
And smile for Joy your pretty Rival's slain.
Fate wove thy thred of life too fine to last.
All's lost at once! O Sad! O desp'rate cast!
Thus, in my arms, I'le bear thy beauty's hence;
No guilty hand shall touch thy innocence:
Thus, arm in arm, we in one grave will lye;
Wretched we liv'd, but happy we will dye.
[Exit with Cyara.]
Pop.
What means my trembling heart by this surprize?
Why do I sigh? why do these blushes rise?
Before my soul, a mournful Troop appears;
Hopes stifled in their birth, starts sudden fears
Languishing Joys, and solitary tears!
I love him; 'tis too plain Just Heav'n has sent
On my inconstancy this punishment
I've gone too far to think of a return;
I must enjoy him: O my heart does burn!
My blood boils high, and beats with strange desires:
'Tis just that madness mingle with such fires.
Exit.
Nero.
Thou hast a Wit; some sudden means contrive.
Pet.
Believe me, Sir, this night he sha'nt survive.
Exit Nero &c.
Solus.
Contrivance gives a mischief gloss—'tis fine:
I ha't— my kinsman Burrhus fills his wine;
By nature bloody—then the pow'rful charm
Of gold, a present gain, no future harm,
Safe in the Emp'ro'rs favour he shall live:
All this well weigh'd, my black design must thrive.
Nature has not been overkind to me;
Her limber Sons and I cannot agree:
She is my Stepdame; but my comfort is,
To pay her home, this night her darling dyes.
Exit.

Scae. II.

Otho, Piso.
Piso.
YEt be advis'd, and let us end this strife.
Oth.
Deny thy words, and I will spare thy life.
Piso.
Deny my words? what didst thou ever see
In all my life, to raise this thought in thee?
My Nature's hot, provoke me, Sir, no more:
I do prononce again she is a whore.
Otho.
Blasphemer, Peace; rage does my heart-strings tear:
Wert thon my Father, I could not forbear.
Piso.
Sir, I dare Fight.
Otho.
Guard well thy Life.
Piso.
I do.
This sport was ne'r unwelcom until now.
[Fight.]
You bleed.
Otho.
No matter, Sir, the wound's but slight.
Piso.
O, Brother, hear me, for I will not Fight.
Otho.
You must.
Piso.
I cannot. Heav'ns! what have I done?
Otho.
Thou art a coward; pr'ythee, Boy, begone.
Piso
Curse on my hand that drew your preious blood!
Poppea is an Angel, chaste and good:
I'le flatter you; I care not what I say,
Rather than still pursue this fatal fray.
Otho.
Now I believe what thou hast said is true;
Pity has done what anger could not do:
O, she is false, forsworn, and I am lost,
My Soul is ship-wrack'd on its most lov'd coast;
By thy Victorious mercy I'm undone.
Go, Noble brother, leave this wretch alone;
O, my heart's sick! your pardon, pray no more;
Here I will lie, and my hard hap deplore.
Piso.
[Page 36]
Then I will sit for ever by your side
Take it not ill, if I this tameness chide:
Rouse up your wrath, let anger chase away
These sullen clouds; Revenge will bring the day
Again, and make your honour shine more bright,
While it damns her to shades of death and night.
Otho:
Ha! thou hast wak'd my Soul from its dull rest;
Revenge, thou gen'rous fire, enrich my brest.
Poppea passes over the Stage.
O glorious Whore! I'le sink her with a blow,
She's rotten ripe for ruin; let me go.
Piso.
You see her guards will your Revenge oppose,
And thus, for nothing, we our lives shall lose.
Otho.
Down, down, my swelling heart; O, I am sad:
Hold, my weak eyes; this sight has made me mad.
Piso.
Blinded with rage, our Reason's apt to stray:
Be rul'd by me; I'le shew the safest way.
Exennt.

Scae III.

Britannicus reading, Poppea enters.
Pop.
Musing, and all alone? Syllana, go,
The bottom of my Fate I'le quickly know:
My Virtues are dethron'd, and passions rule;
O Heav'ns! my crimes you have reveng'd at full.
Brit.
It is a truth? or does Fame tell us lyes,
When it reports that the Soul never dyes,
But mantled sits, and acts in gloomy shrouds,
Like Cynthia, when she's hemm'd with circling clouds?
[Page 37]When the soft partner of our griefs and joyes,
With trembling hands shall close our dying eyes,
When in sad sort our friends shall stand and mourn,
To see the Fatal torch those relicts burn,
Is there an end of thought? no farther care?
No throne of bliss, nor caverns of despair?
No dens of darkness, nor no seats of Glory?
Then all our grave discourse is but a story.
Some full-gorg'd Priest, nodding beneath a shade,
Tales of Elizium, and the dull pool, made.
Whither, O whither, go we, when we dye?
Why, there where babes not yet conceiv'd do lie?
Death's nothIng; nothing after death will fall;
Time, and dark Chaos, will devour us all.
Pop.
I come to kill thee, Prince.
Brit.
My Boy is dead;
To Heav'ns bright Throne his brighter Soul is fled:
Yonder he mounts on silver burnish'd wings;
Each God, immortal sweets around him flings.
Now, lkie a ship, he cuts the liquid Sky;
His Rigging's Glorious, and his Mast is high;
Fan'd with cool winds his Golden colours fly.
Ha! wilt thou follow him? begin: strike home.
Pop.
I say, to kill thee ( Prince) I hither come.
Thy eyes sharp beams have run quite through my heart,
And I, on thine, will thus revenge the smart.
Brit.
Strike, and by Heav'n I'le kiss thee for the blow:
Be quick; my blood is black, and full of woe:
Do me this welcome dangerous cruelty,
Fair Murdress, if thou art my enemy.
Pop.
Nay, sure you flater'd, when you term'd me fair.
Brit.
If Lillyes, snow, and light, be such, you are.
Pop.
If I am so, this deed would make me foul,
And cast eternal spots upon my soul;
Therefore, thou horrid instrument, be gone:
VVithout thy help, alas, I am undone.
I faint.
Brit.
[Page 38]
VVithin my arms I'le hold thee, till
Thy Soul return, and greedy death beguile.
In Rosy gales life through her lips does stream.
Pop.
VVhy did you wake me from this golden dream?
Oh, I am sick!
Brit.
I am contagious, sure;
And all that touch me dye.
Pop.
You are my cure:
'Tis only in your power to make me live.
From those lov'd eyes let me this Balm receive.
Within this circle let me ever grow.
Brit.
Thou charmer, speak; what wouldst thou have me do?
Pop.
Something—why, thus to press your hand, that's all.
Heav'n how he shakes! why do you tremble, Prince?
Cyara's Ghost.
Brit.
Ha! what art thou? thou ayry phantasm, hence.
O, Gods! it is my Boy: what would'st thou have?
How cold he looks, just ris'n from the grave!
Cya.
Go not to bed, but fly that Sorceress arms;
She tempts, like Circe, and has deadly charms.
Think on Cyara, for she lov'd thee well:
Take heed, beware; thou'rt in the Rode to Hell.
Exit.
Brit.
Stay, I conjure thee stay, leave me not thus,
If thou did'st ever love Britaennicus.
I'le follow thee along thy Ayay track,
And mount above the clouds to fetch thee back.
Exit.
Enter Sylvana with a Taper.
Silva.
O Heav'ns! How do you, Madam? what success?
Pop.
I'le tell thee, Killing woe, and deep distress.
Thy arm my Girl; I'le shew thee e're we part
Sad things: a troubled mind, and wounded heart.
[Page 39]Ah! for my former peace, what would I give?
My comfort is, this shame I shame I sha'nt survive.
Oh dismal change! nothing is constant found;
The Gods, with whirl-winds, drive our Fortunes round.
Exeunt

Scae IV.

Nero, sleeping in a Couch; Caligula's Ghost appears.
Ghost
FRom the Infernal cave, the wide, the low
Abyss, the direful pit of endless woe,
On which each God that looks scarce keeps his State,
But, giddy grown, turns and takes hold of Fate,
Caligula, in vapors wrapt, does come,
Nero, thy friend, and the sworn foe of ROME.
Not Hell's more deradful, than these hated walls;
The Stygian waves, and Terrhene water's falls,
Alike with fear confound my troubled Soul,
And sprinkle equal horrors as they rowl.
By Traytors hands I fell: O that I could,
For every drop they shed, Spill Seas of blood.
Oh Heav'n, I'de do what cannot be exprest!
VVith raging Plagues I'de fill each Roman brest:
Burn Palaces: like Thunder, I would rave,
Tear the tall woods, and rend each Sacred Grove.
But oh! by pow'rful Fate I am confin'd
And must not reak the madness of my mind.
Nero,
Act thou, what can't be done by me,
Thy Genius, I, will aid thy cruelty:
[Page 40]With my pale hand I stroak thy troubled sense;
All poyson Hell contains I do dispense;
The scum of Lethe, with Alecto's gall,
Maegera's sweat, shall on thy vitals fall;
Errinnis shall about thy heart-strings twine;
Yet all's too little for our great design.
Lo, I am warn'd; see where fierce Envy stands,
And summons me, by Pluto's dread commands.
Go on, be mad; no more I must be gone,
And vanish, like the light when day is done.
Nero, Solus.
VVhere have I been? thou Daemon of the night
Return; I'm rack'd with this appalling sight.
The forked tongues of Furyes can't express
The rage that burns within me: Sulphur's less;
Not Hell it self fo full of dread appears;
Not Night, nor darker Death, such horror wears;
Not the destructive force of wind, and fire,
VVhen some great City's ruin they conspire;
Not the davouring Sea, when Neptune makes.
The Sea- Gods drunk, and draughts of ruin takes
VVrong'd womens hate, Sword; Famine, Plagues combine;
Your madness trebled cannot equal mine:
All you faint emblems of my fury are;
No tender Sex, nor age my wrath shall spare.
Enter Drusillus bloody.
What news? thy looks declare it to be good,
A hasty joy appears, though drest in blood.
Drus.
The rabble, Sir, with wine and rage inspir'd
With Trayt'rous hands your Palace would have fir'd:
Your Guards they did assault; but we withstood
Their heat, and soon allay'd it with their blood.
Few strokes were giv'n ere the base cowards fled,
Some pris'ners are, some scap'd, and some are dead.
Nero.
[Page 41]
Ha! do they bid me battle? they shall die:
At their own weapon I the slaves defy.
Nothing but flames can quench my kindled Ire:
Blood's not enough; Fire I'le revenge with fire.
Fierce as young Phaeton I will return:
Great ROME, the World's Metropolis, shall burn.
On Tyber's flood new beams I will display,
And turn black Night into a golden Day.
The molten GODS shan't save their Capital,
Temples shall tumble down, guilt roofs shall fall:
Bright Ruin, with a noise shall swallow all.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus quarti.

Act. V.

Scae. I.

Britannicus, Flavius, Attendants.
Brit.
FIre, fire, I'm all one flame, fly, my friends fly,
Or I shall blast you; O my breath is Brimstone,
My Lungs are Sulphur, my hot brains boil over;
Or you that needs will stay, let your eyes run,
If you did ever love this wretched Prince,
Now mourn, now weep; O, I will catch your tears
And drink the precious drops: I burn, I burn,
Fall, fall, you gentle Rills, you melting show'rs
Call all the winds to fan my furious fires;
Bring the cold North, I'le kiss his out-blown cheeks,
Upon my flaming brest I'le lay his head,
And hug him in my heart, for he is cold,
[Page 42]With my hot arms I'le clapse his frosty limbs,
And twine about him, like a wanton girle.
Oh! oh!
Fla.
Can there be Gods, and not revenge?
Can they behold this Noble copy of
Their own bright excellence poluted thus,
Thus rent and torn by Sacrilegious hands,
Yet idle sit, and sleep upon their Thrones?
The voice of Murder's loud as their own Thunder.
Awake, awake, you drowsy Deityes!
Here is a sight so pitifully strange,
'Twould melt the Scythian's Soul, who stands unmov'd
And Sullen at his Mothers Funeral.
When Fame reports this deed, the rugged Moore
will stand abash'd, and groan to hear it told,
Break, break, my heart: Oh you great GODS of ROME,
Where are you all? Is this my welcome home?
Brit.
Ha! de does weep! nay, pry'thee do not hide it;
By Heav'n, thou art my friend: lend me thy store;
My eyes shall pay thee use, trust me they shall;
Here, in my bosome, lay thy pearly stock;
Heav'ns, how he weeps! thou art a Virgin sure.
Fall, you dear drops; Oh let me hug thee close:
My Spirits are quite parch'd up, my palat's dry;
Th' Elizian shades are cool: oh, let me dye.
Flav.
Sir, I am Flavius: have you quite forgot me?
Brit.
I do remember thee; I lov'd thee well:
Thou art a Noble youth, the child of Honour.
Flav.
From France I come, and bring important news.
Brit.
Ha! hold, I'le tell thee news: Octavia's dead;
She's cold, alas but I am hot as fire.
You amiable floods, when do you stray?
Oh, come, and quench me, quench my raging flames.
Fla.
O Hear me, Heav'ns! hear me, you Just great Gods.
If still Your ears are open to our Pray'rs,
If yet you hold commerce with mortal sighs,
[Page 43]If yet the vows of humble Souls are heard,
Oh now look down, and hear my short address:
No sort of sustenance will I receive,
Nor shall the sparkling bowl salute my lips,
Nor drowny sleep visit my weary eyes,
E're I the author of this Murder know.
Brit.
'Tis like thee; thou wert alwayes a true friend.
In a bright flaming Chariot I'le ascend.
Cyara, Oh Octavia, my dear loves,
You Queens of Innocence, you spotless Doves,
Meet me, I come. Flavius? nay, pry'thee nigher;
Thus, in thy arms, let me, kind youth, expire.
[Dyes.]
Fla.
Farewel, bright Soul! thou Royal Excellence!
Rare union! Grandeur joyn'd with Innocence!
The Fates of wicked Men are gross and slow;
Thine mov'd apace: — but I forgot my vow.
Enter Petronius, Burrhus, with Guards.
Bur.
'Tis done, my Lord, ne'r doubt it.
Petr.
What is he?
Bur.
'Tis Flavius, new returned from France, he came
Just as the Prince had drunk the poyson'd wine.
Petr.
That was not quite so well, for he is honest;
But take no notice: where's the Prince—give way.
How came he dead? I charge you speak, answer me.
Lay hold of all, in the name of the Emperour.
Fla.
Hands off, I will declare the author of
This horrid Murder. Speak, who fill'd his wine?
Bur.
That, Sir, did I.
Fla.
Then thou art his Murderer.
Start not, base villain, black as thou art, the Prince
With his last Noble breath did pardon thee,
Bur.
Sir, I was Order'd—
Fla.
Ha! is it then a truth?
Bur.
[Page 44]
I know not; but —
Fla.
Thou ly'st; it is too true.
Guilt, and distraction, sit upon thy brow:
And 'tis as true that thou shalt dye for't, villain.
[Draws.]
Petr.
Hold, Sir: by what authority dare you do this?
Fla.
Why, by the Gods, by friendship, Justice, all:
I'le answer thee no farther.
Petr,
Ha! forbear.
Take him or kill him, Guards, I do Command you.
Flavius beats down Petronius, and kills Burrhus: the Guards disarm him.
Fla.
Pardon, you Gods, my former blasphemy;
O you are Just, and I adore your powers
Now lead me where you please, to life or death,
Let me but pay my last observance here,
My vow I have perform'd; and thou, dear Prince,
Art in some part reveng'd: what my poor power
Could possibly effect, is done; the rest
Belongs unto the Gods.
Petr.
Remove the bodyes,
And bring him away.
Exeunt.

Scae. II.

Plautus, Mirmilon.
Plau.
HEear you the news?
Mir.
Not I: you seem amaz'd.
Plau.
A Currier from beyond the Alps arriv'd
Reports the French are all in Arms, resolv'd
[Page 45]To bring the War ev'n to the gates of ROME.
Fierce Vindex heads the Rebels, and all France
Contributes largely: this the Emperour hears,
And laughs; slights them, and swears he'll hang 'em all.
The people mutiny in every street;
Their tongues are Lawless; nay, they Murmur loud:
Some modestly retire to comers, where
They curse and damn him, call him paricide,
A burner of their houses, friends, and Gods,
Lo where he comes; the Lion's rous'd, his eyes
Look red with anger, Lightning flashes in them:
What Thunder follows? Let's stand by and hear.
Nero, Flavius, Guards,
Fla.
Was't not well done? I did his Murd'rer kill.
Nero.
Know, hardy fool, he suffer'd by my will:
I hated him, and did his death contrive.
Now, villain, think how long thou hast to live.
Fla.
To live? Oh who would live, thy humor's slave?
A torment worse than blackest Devils have.
Let parasites, the moths of Grandeur, fawn,
These guilded canker-worms, ambition's spawn:
I do despise thee, Tyrant as thou art;
There's nothing great, nor Manly in thy heart.
Nero.
Are you so hot? I'le alter your fierce tone.
Plautus, go burn the villain; see it done.
Fla.
Mid'st of devouring flames, I will despise
All that the Master Devil thou,
Or the black crew of lesser Fiends devise:
Thou shalt not hear a groan till I expire;
But then I'le shout defyance from the fire,
Smile at the shock of death, and to the Gods retire
Exeunt.
[Page 46] Enter Petronius.
Petr.
Dread Sir, two Messengers who come from Spain,
Report that Galba does new Wars maintain;
Heads the revolted Troops, and joyns with France;
The Germans too come in, and all advance
Against Your Majesty.
Nero.
I'le hear no more.
Is Galba false?
Petr.
They call him Emperour.
Nero.
They do; but what's the name, without the pow'r?
Let him come on; this arm shall strike him dead,
And snatch his borrowed Laurels from his head.
Petr.
Your Treasures are consum'd with late expence.
Nero.
His gather'd Sums shall help that indigence.
Petr,
Time flies; 'tis fit your wisdom had design'd —
Nero.
Do you consult, while I my pleasures mind.
Oh my Poppoea, where art thou retir'd?
Never was blessing.
So oft enjoy'd; yet still so much desir'd.
Exeunt.

Scaen. III.

Popepa, Piso, and Otho, listening.
Pop.
ARe they both dead? Piso and Otho too?
Piso.
I saw'em first oppose the pyrat's rage,
With numbers, scorning death, they did engage;
The GOD of battels blush'd as he look'd on,
Envying the just applause these Heroes won.
Pop.
[Page 47]
Virtue is still by violence opprest.
How his eyes sparkle! Pray relate the rest.
Piso.
I have my self the doubtful hazard stood
Of fifteen battles, plung'd in waves of blood,
The dreadful cast on Fortune's bank I threw,
Life was my lot; yet still in all my view
Of wounds, of War, and death, I never saw
Such pleasing horror, such delightful awe,
Such mighty force and art together laid;
Never was Game of death so bravely play'd:
At last, O that I live such news to tell!
With conqu'ring tir'd, these Sons of Valour fell.
Pop.
Oh pow'r of Love! his words my Soul invade!
Sure 'tis some GOD, delighting in a shade:
The Glories of his eyes, like Stars in night,
Or mourning Beauties, charm my wounded sight.
Since Honours are by Caesar, round my hurl'd,
Since I am made the Empress of the World,
Since all's my choice, why do I doubtful stand,
And wish a pleasure which I may command?
If, when I dye, I must to torments go,
'Tis fit no time be lost; let pleasures flow.
Fancy its eager appetite shall cloy;
Let resolution Holy qualms destroy;
Henceforth, what e're I like, I will enjoy.
Exit beckoning Piso.
Otho, Solus.
O Hell! her crimes thy horror cannot match:
Be swift, my Sword, her lust and life dispatch.
This key unlocks all doors throughout the Court.
Are you so wanton? Yes you shall have sport.
How am I Rob'd of all I ever lov'd!
My soul is heavy, and would be remov'd.
Once she was fair, the softest, sweetest wife,
My heart's lov'd Joy, the Jewel of my life;
[Page 48]Had she stood so, how happy had I been!
But she's fallen, and Glories in her sin.
Ah, the whole Sex is naught, false, and unkind;
Falser than flatt'ring Seas, or fleeting wind:
With panting hopes and fears they rack our brest,
Snatch our soft sleeps, and ravish downy rest:
Oh, they are skill'd, practis'd in paint and art;
Smile in our face, and stab us to the heart.
Yet we see all, think nothing is unspy'd
While they like Serpents, on their bellies glide,
And leave no Print behinde our search to guide.
Exit.
Poppea, Piso.
Piso.
War is my Mistress; here I am unfit:
Love's chaplet misbecoms a Warrior's head;
I cannot cringe, my nerves too firm are knit;
These limbs ne'r lay upon a silken bed.
Can you, that are the World's great Empress, take
Delight in the embraces of a slave?
Pop.
The Sun, for thy lov'd cheek, did Heav'n forsake;
Why should not I the like advantage have?
From a bright Orb of Glory I'le descend,
And in thy gloomy Cell make my abode:
No more a slave; henceforth thou art my friend:
A Cottage has, ere now, receiv'd a GOD.
Piso.
Who ever knew Night mingle with the Day?
Pop
Nothing agrees with Love so well as Night;
Hush'd, and in darkness hid, the bashful play,
And, happy as the bold, ravish delight:
The most obdurate, are by kindness won.
Your touches charm; nay, why do you withdraw?
Grow thus, like a soft cloud upon the Sun;
My pow'rful flame thy Icy fears will thaw.
Piso.
[Page 49]
Your Grandeur aws me; yet, why should I fear?
Somthing there is which my blood strangely moves;
I am your slave; but are we private here?
Pop.
As Hermits in their Cells, or Gods in groves.
Piso.
Why did you name the Gods? that Sacred sound
The force of Thunder bears, and turns my blood;
My Spirits fly low, yet with your touch rebound,
Like wanton Swallows, when they kiss the flood.
Pop.
Such fears unworthy are my blood or Throne;
Give me a Fancy sixt to its delight:
Tremblings and starts the fearful well may own;
The valiant still refuse a distant fight.
Enter Otho.
Otho.
Here's one that fain would try your mighty Art:
What mean you? ere the Fight's begun, you start.
Pop.
Night, horror, death! Ah, whither shall I fly?
Otho.
Can you be valiant, and yet fear to dye?
Pop.
Thus, at your feet, let me one moment grow;
A little respite for my Soul allow.
Repentance seizes on each vital part,
And serions grief clings about my heart;
Yet, ere I dye, let me my thoughts declare,
O you are wrong'd; my still loved Lord, you are:
Your bed's defil'd, and I am all one stain;
But yet my blood may wash me white again.
By killing me, you only can forgive;
I am so wicked, that I would not live.
In pity say this of me, when 'Im dead,
She was not easily to ruin led;
'Twas not a common Crown her virtue bought;
But mighty Glory with great Courtship wrought;
Then she was young:
This, Sir, perhaps, may mitigate my fault.
Oth.
[Page 50]
Her cunning tongue retains its wonted charms.
Peace, Syron, and hold off thy guilty arms.
I feel a gentle load drop on my feet.
Look, Piso, I suspect, but dare not see't.
Piso
Oh, do not, Sir: my eyes, by chance, did stray
And half my resolution's ta'ne away.
She weeps, she weeps! Gods! who would not admire
To see such floods rise from a Spring of fire?
Otho.
Yes, I will see her: O thou false one, speak;
For thou shalt die,
Though, will the Fatal stroke, my own heart break.
Look up, seek not to hide thy known disgrace;
But shew thy fair, thy false, thy once lov'd face.
Oh answer me, what have I ever done
That thou should'st use me thus? cease thy vain moan,
And speak, or practice o're thy mournful art,
And sob an answer. Oh my troubled heart!
Pop.
Yes, I will speak, my Noble Lord, I will;
'Tis but a short request,: be kind, and kill.
Your words, like Daggers, through my brest make way;
A thousand deaths you give me by delay.
This one last look. — Oh put me out of pain;
I'le speak no more;
Nor shall my eyes e'er look forth again.
Otho.
A mortal agony invades my blood;
Somthing now whispers me, she may be good;
And shall we blast young Virtue in the bud?
An Earth-quake's here, all in confusion Tost,
In the disorder too, Revenge is lost.
Piso.
Here you shall find it; let me give the blow.
Otho.
Thou art so hasty still.
Piso.
And you as slow.
Oth.
She ne'r offended thee; I charge you hold.
Piso.
His old love burns again.
Oth.
Alas, I'm cold.
[Page 51]Compassion this last ardency did move;
Twas the effect of pity, not of Love
Enter Nero.
Nero.
The Empress dying? hold thy bloody hand.
Piso.
If thou wouldst save her life, I charge thee stand;
The bound of thy Progression there shall be:
When e're thou stirr'st,
She takes a step to immortality.
Nero.
Shall I be brav'd by a black Dog, a Slave?
Hold, hold: my Pardon, on my knees humbly thus I crave.
Stiff as an Elephant, I cannot bend;
My little fault, let this submission mend.
Piso.
You stirr'd an inch; 'tis vain to weep or Pray.
Nero.
Thou Son of Night, pernicious creature, stay:
I'th' name of all the Gods, Oh, let her live;
Let me this bounty, on my knees, receive,
And thou, in all my Glories, shalt have share;
Thy sooty hand shall the World's Scepter bear,
And Diamond wreaths shall round thy temples mourn,
And Pearly threds thy Jetty neck adorn.
Piso.
Just as you move, my Justice shall proceed.
She shall not dye this time, though she must bleed.
Stabs Her in the Arm.
Nero.
What hast thou done?
Piso
Not much: your posture keep,
And stir not, lest I make a wound more deep.
Nero.
Behold I'm fix'd: thou art not humane sure,
O, mighty Love!
'Tis for thy sake, I this disgrace endure:
[Page 52]Had'st thou a Generous Soul, thou could'st not see
The Lord O' th' world thus long upon his knee.
Piso.
Like a Tall Tree, to dull Earth thou shalt grow;
You were a mighty God a while a goe,
And 'tis my Pride to make your Godhead bow.
Nero.
I cannot suffer this. Awake, my Soul,
Let haughty rage all thoughts of Love controul.
Piso.
Nay, then 'tis time: Brother strike home.
Otho.
I have.
May all her faults be buried in her grave.
Nero.
Hence, from my fight; the slaves to torments bear;
Mark me, let 'em be dying all the Year,
Tortures in this small Book you may explore,
The Rack, the Wheel, Phalaris Bull; nay more;
With care, turn all the bloody pages o're:
On fiery brazen pavements let 'em run,
Their eye-lids snatch, let them Face the Sun.
'S death, dare you stay? begone, I will not hear
A word; what need I thus my Spirits tear?
My looks hereafter shall my mind declare,
Where is the Empress? bring her to my bed.
Plau.
The Empress, said you, Sir? Alas she is dead.
Nero.
Villain, thou ly'st; go pull his tongue out, haste;
I'le see the roots on't; fly, h' has spoke his last.
Who answers now? Statues, By Heav'n! All dull?
Mir.
If she were dead —
Nero.
What then, Sententious fool?
If she were dead, I would restore her breath,
And she should live,
Spight of her self, spight of the Gods, and Death.
My Pow'r's unlimited, as is their own:
My smile brings Life, and death attends my frown.
My Empires bounds Nature alone does make;
The Sun his lodging in my Sea does take,
The grateful God too owns the mighty debt,
Thaws me down clouds, and payes me gen'rous heat.
[Page 53]If she were dead?
Curse o' your crimingand base flattery;
Ye are lyars all: hence, from my presence fly.
Enter Messenger.
Drus.
Lost, and undone: fly Sacred Sir, you'r lost:
Galba is just arriv'd upon our Coast;
With four score thousand strong he beats the way,
The treacherous Senate too their trust betray;
Through all the Streets Proclaim him Emperour;
But call you Tyrant, curse your Name and Pow'r.
Exit.
Mir.
Flie, flie, dread Sir; flie from this fatal ground;
The base Plebeians have beset you round:
Petronius, who a while sustain'd their heat,
I saw, all bloody, from the walls retreat
Otho, and Piso, from your Guards are freed
All ROME applauds them for this last great Deed.
Exit.
Enter Petronius staggering.
Nero.
Speak, my true friend; I'le be advis'd by you;
What more remains, in these extreams, to do?
Petr.
With faithful truth, Sir, I have serv'd you long:
Yours was the right, I did my self the wrong;
But now it matters not, 'twas Loyalty,
And, as I liv'd, I in your service dye.
My counsel is, you by your own hand bleed;
The Senate has some base poor death decreed.
Death's but a name; by my example fall:
I fear no lakes, nor stigian Frogs; that's all.
[Dies.]
Nero.
O Gods! but wherefore name I these feign'd powr's?
The Elements, the Seasons, Days, and hours,
Were alwayes as they are, and will be so,
And Nature her eternal round will go.
[Page 54]The Gods when we're awake their Daemons keep
At home, and only fright us when we sleep.
I would the utmost know of Destiny,
And therefore, dying, do their pow'rs defie
If they have any Thunder, let it come;
I'le stand the heavy shock, and brave my doom.
Down all at once—Ha! whence proceeds this noise?
(Thun­der.)
If there be Gods, sure this must be their voice.
Speak on, talk lowder yet. What shapes are these?
O dismal Scene of death! my Arteries.
Tremble, and nature sinks beneath her weight.
I know you all: smile on, Thou art my Fate.
What God was't hung thee there? He is my friend:
By thee, he points me out a noble end.
[Dies.]
Otho, Piso, Attendants.
Otho.
'Tis he, and as it seems, by himself slain.
ROME's Sacred Genius, now look forth again;
Come from thy shroud, show thy Majestick head;
Direct our Joyes, the dreadful Tyrant's dead.
Piso.
Let's to the FORVM haste, and there proclaim
A mighty donative in Galbas's name.
With all the Pomp 'Oth' Court his Camp wee'll meet,
And his approach with Joyful shoutings greet:
Proclaim him Emperour with Trumpets Souud
While he, now made a God, shall scorn the ground,
And, on our shoulders ride, with Lawrels Crown'd.
FINIS.

The Epilogue spoken by Mr. Harris.

HOW dull, how grave, and how precise ye sit,
As if ye had acted Love, not tasted wit.
When the Trick's done, like Wine unstop'd yee pall
After enjoyment, thus it's with yee all,
Your modish Playes like jaunty Misses shew'd,
Be bravely drest, high flown, more fine than good
For Cloaths attract yee more than flesh and blood.
Like cover'd viands Beauties hid from sight,
Raise drooping fancy up to new delight.
For you Gallants, ye gay brisk witty Men,
He knows your killing trade, your damning strain;
Ye can as well Wenches and drink restrain:
Yet faith for my sweet sake be kind to night,
Or may this heavy curse upon ye light;
May each Gallant that has an assignation,
Be jilted after four hours expectation;
Or if the masked Gentlewoman come
Spight of long Scarff, may she be dogg'd from home.
May ye—
In height of Titilation hear a rapping,
And then the jealous Cuckold take ye napping.

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