_Luc._ They say Poppæa hath Octavia’s head in the palace To play with. _Sen._ ’Tis a journaler’s lie. _Luc._ Did Fulvia Not pierce the tongue of Cicero dead? _Sen._ Fie! fie! Let journalers traduce their filthy souls: Why bring ye me their scandals, when to truths, That daily I must hear, I wish me deaf? _Luc._ O sir, Rome thinks thou árt deaf: and men whisper That creeping time devours thee sense by sense, While thou, death’s willing prey, dost sit at home Wreathing philosophies to hang the tomb Of liberty, and crown the coward brows Of icy oblivion. Sir, if this were true, Well mightst thou wish not hear: but if thou hast not Forgot the murder of Britannicus.... _Sen._ Hush, hush! _Luc._ Or sweet Octavia’s wrongs.... _Sen._ Stay, nephew! I say. _Luc._ The shame of her divorce.... _Sen._ None of this, prithee! For true it is I wish I could forget. _Luc._ Her transportation and imprisonment Upon an outlawed isle; that calumny, Dumb in her faultless presence, might dare trumpet Charges incredible: and last her death 481 By a clumsy soldier, ’gainst whose butcher’s knife She struggled childishly, to the stony walls Screaming in terror. O sir, let no Roman, Who hath one hand unbound, wish he were deaf. _Sen._ Enough! enough! _Luc._ Why this, sir, is a tale Would damn a tragedy for the overdoing Of the inhumanities. _Sen._ Ay, and I think, Nephew, it gains not by thy rhetoric. _Lat._ But Nero, sir, is held thy pupil, and thou In part discredited,—nay, none but thou Since Burrus died. _Sen._ Well, well: but Burrus’ death Hath halved my power, and left the lesser half Helpless in isolation. _Lat._ That’s a fact. We come, my lord, to bid thee join thy hand With them that look to thee. There’s Fænius Rufus, That’s now in Burrus’ place, another Burrus. _Sen._ Another Burrus! Fifty Rufuses Would make no part of Burrus. Why! I am grieved More for his goodness, when I think of him, 500 Than by all Nero’s ill. My staunch friend was he, Stern as a Roman, tender as a woman: A simple mind, a clear head, and true heart; Faithful, unblenched and certain of his path. All that philosophy has ever taught me He knew by instinct, and would hit the mark With careless action, where my reason fumbled And groped in the dusk. I say, if all the books I have ever read or writ, could make one man Like Burrus, with so natural a touch, And such godlike directness, none would doubt Of our philosophy. _Luc._ But now he’s gone. _Sen._ There’s none like Burrus.