_Ner._ A plot! and this contemptible Scevinus I could almost forgive; that woman never. She fooled me to my face, laughed as she fooled me: A Common woman! Cæsar! me! on the eve Of being the ridicule of history: My wisdom a mockery,—my insight,—to the end of time Schoolboys to laugh at turning of my page, The favourite tale to spice their dreary task. Nero! and I who, when my very mother, She who upraised me, dared to plot against me, Scrupled not, I, for my world-reaching schemes And absolute power, I scrupled not to hide Sonship in Cæsardom: yes, and for that Have oped my soul-gates to the powers of hell, And daily face spectres of horror, ghostly Environments, the blue upbraiding lips Of shadowy forms, that kiss in mockery, And poison peace upon the paths of sleep. To have borne in vain the murderer’s scaring plague, To be by a common woman—killed: I doubt not, Had but occasion served, she would have done it. Have laughed to do it, laughed on when ’twas done. Ah! by that lately-laughing, cherruping mouth Shall all her damned conspirators be snared: Yes, and a thousand times shall she scream truth, Ere I will hear; a thousand times shriek forth The names of those her shrieks shall shriek to hell, Ere she go after them. (_Re-enter Tigellinus._) What, Tigellinus! What saith Epicharis? _Tig._ Nothing. _Ner._ Nothing? _Tig._ Nothing. Cæsar will never get a word from her. _Ner._ Thou hast not killed her, fool? _Tig._ Nay, Cæsar: but no corpse Keeps better silence. _Ner._ Where’s thy art, man? Use Rack, redhot pincers, the slow fire ... _Tig._ Not all together make her give a sound. _Ner._ Persist. _Tig._ They do; but ’tis beyond our power To match the first pangs; and they moved her not. I came to say we had forgot Senecio. _Ner._ True: take him. _Tig._ And to torture? _Ner._ Rack him well. But make this woman speak. Use better art. 2080 _Tig._ I found the torturers sitting round their task: Their zest had cooled. Without a cry or scream ’Tis a dull sport. _Ner._ She is a Christian, then. _Tig._ The Christians never plot: I think in that, Cæsar, you wrong them. _Ner._ I? Thou know’st them little: They are the time’s worst plague. I do not care If they burned Rome or no: were they all burned ’Twould richly compensate the world. Hark, friend! The people might be masters; what they lack This Christ provides. Were I to prophesy, I’d say that should their cursed doctrines spread, They would one day drown all, learning and beauty, Wisdom and rule and art. For that I hate them, And love to destroy them. I AM THEIR ANTI-CHRIST.