“ I prayse your witt, my Lord, that choose such safe Honors, safe spoyles, worm without dust or blood.
Nero. What, mocke ye me, Poppaea.
Pop. Nay, in good faith, my Lord, I speake in earnest:
I hate that headie and adventurous crew
That goe to loose their owne to purchase but
The breath of others and the common voyce;
Them that will loose their hearing for a sound,
That by death onely seeke to get a living,
Make skarres their beautie and count losse of Limmes
The commendation of a proper man,
And so goe halting to immortality,—
Such fooles I love worse then they doe their lives. ”

“ Hub. Is he the Divell? all!
Bel. Cast not your eyes on me, Sir, but on him; And seale this to your soule: never had King A Sonne that did to his Crowne more honours bring.
Hen. Stay, Bellizarius; I'me too true to honour To scant it in the blazing: though to thee All that report can render leaves thee yet—
Hub. A brave man: you are so too, you both fought; And I stood idle?
Hen. No, Sir.
Hub. Here's your battaile then, and here's your conquest: What need such a coyle?
Bel. Yet, Hubert, it craves more Arethmaticke Than in one figure to be found.
King. Hubert, thou art too busie. ”

“ Onae. Monster of men thou art: thou bloudy villaine,
Traytor to him who never injur'd thee,
Dost thou professe Armes and art bound in honour
To stand up like a brazen wall to guard
Thy King and Country, and wood'st thou ruine both?
Bal. You spurre me on too't.
Onae. True;
Worse am I then the horrid'st fiend in hell
To murder him whom once I lov'd too well:
For tho I could runne mad, and teare my haire,
And kill that godlesse man that turn'd me vile;
Though I am cheated by a perjurous Prince
Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven
Shakes when the Sunne beholds it ”

“ Ills must new Ills beget.
Enter Malateste and Baltazar.
Bal. Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now?
Queen. None, for mine honour now is thy protection.
Mal. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit.
Bal. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.
Queen. Oh, Baltazar, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee
When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment:
Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe;
Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base,
And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none:
The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd. ”

“ Enter Bellina.
Hub. Doe.—Oh, my Bellina,
If ever, make me happy now; now tye
Strong charmes about my full-plum'd Burgonet
To bring me safe home. I must to the Warres.
Bellina. What warres? we have no warres but in our selves;
We fighting with our sinnes, our sinnes with us;
Yet they still get the Victory. Who are in Armes
That you must to the Field?
Hub. The Kings Royall thoughts
Are in a mutiny amongst themselves,
And nothing can allay them but a slaughter,
A general massacre of all the Christians
That breath in his Dominion. I am the Engine
To worke this glorious wonder.
Bellina. ”

“ Queen. Say on.
Mal. That the most Catholike King in marrying you Keepes you but as his whore.
Queen. Are we their Theames?
Mal. And that Medina's Neece, Onaelia,
Is his true wife: her bastard sonne, they said,
(The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crowne;
And whatsoever children you shall beare
To be but bastards in the highest degree,
As being begotten in Adultery.
Queen. We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance
Beat down this armed mischiefe. Malateste,
What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme
Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me? ”

“ Enter Nimphidius, Lucan, Scevinus, with a guard.
Nimph. Though Pisoes suddennesse and guilty hand Prevented hath the death he should have had, Yet you abide it must.
Lucan. O may the earth lye lightly on his Course, Sprinckle his ashes with your flowers and teares; The love and dainties of mankind is gone.
Scevin. What onely now we can, we'le follow thee That way thou lead'st and waite on thee in death; Which we had done had not these hindred us.
Nimph. Nay, other ends your grievous crimes awaite, Ends which the law and your deserts exact. ”

“ Cosmo. Eugenius, bow thy knee before our Jove, And the King gives thee mercy.
Dam. Else stripes and death.
Eugen. We come into the world but at one doore,
But twenty thousand gates stand open wide
To give us passage hence: death then is easie,
And I defie all tortures.
King. Then fasten the Cative;
I care not for thy wife: Get from mine eyes
Thou tempting Lamia. But, Bellizarius,
Before thy bodyes frame be puld in pieces,
Wilt thou forsake the errours thou art drencht in? ”

“ For pitying humane chance and Pisoes end
There will be some too that will pitie mine.
Poppaea. O what a dauntlesse looke, what sparkling eyes, (aside.) Threating in suffering! sure some noble blood Is hid in ragges; feares argues a base spirit; In him what courage and contempt of death! And shall I suffer one I love to die? He shall not die.—Hands of this man! Away! Nero, thou shalt not kill this guiltlesse man. ”

“ A thousand wheeles tosse my incertaine feares;
There is a storme in my hot boyling braines
Which rises without wind; a horrid one.
What clamor's that?
Queen. Some treason: guard the King!
Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals.
Bal. Not in?
Mal. One of your guard's slaine: keepe off the murderer!
Bal. I am none, Sir.
Val. There's a man drop'd down by thee.
King. Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon us!
Is murder all the story we shall read? ”

“ Man. O reverend wrinckles, well becoming palenesse, Why hath death now lifes colours given thee And mockes thee with the beauties of fresh youth?
Wom. Why wert thou given me to be tane away So soone, or could not Heaven tell how to punish But first by blessing mee?
Man. Why where thy years Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely?
Nero. Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cryes and pitie, with your blood; Mens Eyes [57] —
Wom. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses, And armes that wont to writhe about my necke? ”

“ Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling
The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd.
Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?
Poet. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men.
Onae. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine?
Poet. Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare. ”

“ What meanst thou?
Bal. The edge abated? feele.
King. No, no, I see it.
Bal. As blunt as Ignorance.
King. How? put up—So—how?
Bal. I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gallery, a picture of hell.
King. So; what of that?
Bal. There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fellowes, all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold; Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn'd into a watching Candle that went out stinking; Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts but horribly rotten ”

“ Is throwne about the roome, and burnes so clearely,
Mine eye-bals drop out blasted at the sight.
(He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends.)
I. SONG. What are earthly honours
But sins glorious banners?
Let not golden gifts delight thee,
Let not death nor torments fright thee;
From thy place thy Captaine gives thee
When thou faintest he relieves thee.
Hearke, how the Larke
Is to the Morning singing;
Harke how the Bells are ringing.
It is for joy that thou to Heaven art flying:
This is not life, true life is got by dying. ”

“ But Tacitus pursues his victim with the patience of a sleuth-hound; he seems to find a ruthless satisfaction in stripping the soul of its coverings; he treads the floor of hell and watches with equanimity the writhings of the damned. ”

“ See, my Victoria, lookes she not sweetly?
Vict. Shee does, my Lord; but not much better than she was wont.
Belliz. Oh shee but beginnes to shine as yet, But will I hope ere long be stellified. Alas, my Victoria, thou look'st nothing like her.
Vict. Not like her? why, my Lord?
Belliz. Marke and Ile tell thee how:
Thou art too much o'er growne with sinne and shame,
Hast pray'd too much, offered too much devotion
To him and those that can nor helpe nor hurt,
Which my Bellina has not:
Her yeares in sinne are not, as thine are, old ”

“ Take hence the body,
Since me it hated it shall feele my hate:
Cast her into the fire; I have lost her,
And for her sake all Christians shall be lost
That subjects are to me: massacre all,
But thou, Eugenius, art the last shall fall
This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more,
Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.
A Thunder-bolt strikes him.
Omnes. The King is strucke with thunder!
Eugen. Thankes, Divine Powers; Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.
Anton. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne; And he shall doome him.
A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert! ”

“ Poppaea's wit bites shrewdly; and even Nimphidius' wicked breast must have been chilled at such bitter jesting as:—
"How did our Princely husband act Orestes? Did he not wish againe his Mother living? Her death would add great life unto his part."
As Nero approaches his crowning act of wickedness, the burning of Rome, his words assume a grim intensity. The invocation to the severe powers is the language of a man at strife at once with the whole world and himself. In the representation of the burning of Rome it will perhaps be thought that the author hardly rises to the height of his theme. ”

“ Like a true coward Nero makes light of the distant danger; but when the rumours fly thick and fast he gives way to womanish passionateness, idly upbraiding the gods instead of consulting for his own safety. His despair and terror when he perceives the inevitable doom are powerfully rendered. The fear of the after-world makes him long for annihilation ”

“ To love thy selfe, to love a thing within thee
More curious than the frame of all this world,
More lasting than this Engine o're our heads
Whose wheeles have mov'd so many thousand yeeres:
This thing is thy soule for which I woe thee!"
Henceforward his resolution is fixed: he is no longer a soldier of fortune, "seeking the bubble reputation," but the champion of the weak against the strong, the lively image of a Christian Hero warring steadfastly against the powers of evil. ”

“ If he had been living in our own day Nero might possibly have made an ephemeral name for himself among the writers of the Sub-Swinburnian School. His longer poems were, no doubt, nerveless and insipid, deserving the scornful criticism of Tacitus and Persius; but the fragments preserved by Seneca shew that he had some skill in polishing far-fetched conceits. Our playwright has not fallen into the error of making Nero "out-Herod Herod"; through the crazy raptures we see the ruins of a nobler nature. Poppaea's arrowy sarcasms, her contemptuous impatience and adroit tact are admirable. ”

“ Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall.
Bal. Prove but that, 'tis done.
Queen. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.
Mal. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save
More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.
Queen. Art thou not yet converted?
Bal. No point.
Queen. Read me then: Medina's Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder. ”

“ Tigell. You see what issue things doe sort unto; Yet may we hope not only impunitie But with our fellowes part oth' guift proclaim'd.
Nero meets them.
Nero. Whether goe you? stay, my friends; 'Tis Caesar calls you; stay, my loving friends.
Tigell. We were his slaves, his footstooles, and must crouch But now with such observance to his feet; It is his misery that calles us friends.
Nero. And moves you not the misery of a Prince? O stay, my friends, stay, harken to the voyce Which once yee knew.
Tigell. Harke to the peoples cryes, Harke to the streets that Galba, Galba, ring. ”

“ Shedding beames over-glorious on our heads,
Is now full of Eclipses.
King. No, boy; thy presence Has fetcht life home to heare thee.
Hen. Then, Royal Father, thus:
Before our Troopes had reacht the Affrick bounds,
Wearied with tedious Marches and those dangers
Which waite on glorious Warre, the Affricans
A farre had heard our Thunder, whilst their Earth
Did feele an earth-quake in the peoples feares
Before our Drummes came near them. Yet, spight of terrour,
They fortifi'd their Townes, cloathed all their fields
With warres best bravery, armed Souldiers. ”

“ Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss.
King. Any more?
Bal. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.
King. Nay, spit thy venome. ”

“ Performe what thou art bidden; if thou art charg'd To starve me, Ile not blame thee but blesse heaven.
Clown. If you were starv'd what hurt were that to you?
Eugen. Not any; no, not any.
Clown. Here would be your praise when you should lie dead: they would say, he was a very good man but alas! had little or nothing in him.
Eugen. I am a slave to any misery My Iudges doome me too.
Clown. If you bee a slave there's more slaves in the world than you.
Eugen. Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices; The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine, Adulterers to their lust. ”

“ Then he discourses on the blessings of death; he begins in a semi-ironical vein, but soon, forgetful of his auditors, is borne away on the wings of ecstacy. The intense realism of the writing is appalling. He speaks as a "prophet new inspired," and we listen in wonderment and awe. The language is amazingly strong and rich, and the imagination gorgeous. ”

“ I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.
King. That song no more: Doe this and I will make thee a great man.
Bal. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?
Mal. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.
Bal. Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.
King. Farewell, be confident and sudden.
Bal. Yes;
Subjects may stumble when Kings walk astray:
Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha. ”

“ Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench'd
In perjury and murder?
Car. Oh, Sir, great store.
King. Come downe, come quickly downe.
Car. I'll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.
King. Doe, doe.
Car. And he shall cure your wounded soule: —Fetch him, good Souldier.
Bal. So good a work I'le hasten.
King. Onaelia! oh, shee's drown'd in tears. Onaelia! Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.
Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.
Car. Here comes a better Surgeon.
Seb. Haile my good Sonne! I come to be thy ghostly Father. ”