The character of Piso, for whom Tacitus shows such undisguised contempt, is drawn with kindliness and sympathy. Seneca, too, who meets with grudging praise from the stern historian, stands out ennobled in the play. His bearing in the presence of death is admirably dignified; and the polite philosopher, whose words were so faultless and whose deeds were so faulty, could hardly have improved upon the chaste diction of the farewell address assigned him by the playwright. While Seneca's grave wise words are still ringing in our ears we are called to watch a leave-taking of a different kind. No reader of the _Annals_ can ever forget the strange description of the end of Petronius;--how the man whose whole life had "gone, like a revel, by" neither faltered, when he heard his doom pronounced, nor changed a whit his wonted gaiety; but dying, as he had lived, in abandoned luxury, sent under seal to the emperor, in lieu of flatteries, the unblushing record of their common vices. The obscure playwright is no less impressive than the world-renowned historian. While Antonius and Enanthe are picturing to themselves the consternation into which Petronius will be thrown by the emperor's edict, the object of their commiseration presents himself. Briefly dismissing the centurion, he turns with kindling cheek to his scared mistress--"Come, let us drink and dash the posts with wine!" 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. At the beginning of the fifth act comes the news of the rising of Julius Vindex. 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; his imagination presents to him "the furies arm'd with linkes, with whippes, with snakes," and he dreads to meet his mother and those "troopes of slaughtered friends" before the tribunal of the Judge "That will not leave unto authoritie, Nor favour the oppressions of the great."