Poppaea.  I know not how this stranger moves my mind. (Aside.)
His face me thinkes is not like other mens,
Nor do they speake thus.  Oh, his words invade
My weakned senses and overcome my heart.

Nero.  Your pitie shewes your favour and your will,
Which side you are inclinde too, had you[79] power: 
You can but pitie, else should Caesar feare. 
Your ill affection then shall punisht bee. 
Take him to execution; he shall die
That the death pities of mine enemie.

Yong.  This benefit at least
Sad death shall give, to free me from the power
Of such a government; and if I die
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.

Nero.  He guiltlesse?  Strumpet!

(Spurns her, and Poppaea falls.)

She is in love with the smooth face of the boy.

Neoph.  Alas, my Lord, you have slaine her.

Epaphr.  Helpe, she dies.

Nero. Poppaea, Poppaea, speake, I am not angry; I did not meane to hurt thee; speake, sweet love.

Neoph.  She’s dead, my Lord.

Nero.  Fetch her againe, she shall not die: 
Ile ope the Iron gates of hell
And breake the imprison’d shaddowes of the deepe,
And force from death this farre too worthy pray. 
She is not dead: 
The crimson red that like the morning shone,
When from her windowes (all with Roses strewde)
She peepeth forth, forsakes not yet her cheekes;
Her breath, that like a hony-suckle smelt,
Twining about the prickled Eglintine,
Yet moves her lips; those quicke and piercing eyes,
That did in beautie challenge heaven’s eyes,[80]
Yet shine as they were wont.  O no, they doe not;
See how they grow obscure.  O see, they close
And cease to take or give light to the world. 
What starres so ere you are assur’d to grace
The[81] firmament (for, loe, the twinkling fires
Together throng and that cleare milky space,
Of stormes and Phiades and thunder void,
Prepares your roome) do not with wry aspect
Looke on your Nero, who in blood shall mourne
Your lucklesse fate, and many a breathing soule
Send after you to waite upon their Queene. 
This shall begin; the rest shall follow after,
And fill the streets with outcryes and with slaughter.

[Exeunt.]

(SCENE 6.)

Enter Seneca with two of his friends.