_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_. _Seneca_. What meanes your mourning, this ungrateful sorrow? Where are your precepts of _Philosophie_, Where our prepared resolution So many yeeres fore-studied against danger? To whom is _Neroes_ cruelty unknowne, Or what remained after mothers blood But his instructors death? Leave, leave these teares; Death from me nothing takes but what's a burthen, A clog to that free sparke of Heavenly fire. But that in _Seneca_ the which you lov'd, Which you admir'd, doth and shall still remaine, Secure of death, untouched of the grave.