Syrus, as bidden duly coming, heard: "Take this, my lad, let not a drop be spilled, And bearing it to thy master say to him, 'Thy lady sends a sleeping-draught to thee, And with it wishes health and placid sleep.'" Syrus, deep scrupling, 'Fair is this, or foul?' Yet found no way not to fulfill the word. Felix said: "This is strange. What sayest thou, boy? Thy mistress sends me this? Thou liest, thou wretch! This is thine own work; thou wouldst do me dead; Drink it thyself, thou varlet, and go sleep. Thou wilt not? Nay, but yea thou wilt, thou shalt; Now, let me see thee drink it every drop." And with his trembling hand the debauchee Gave Syrus back the chalice. "Let me call My mistress; thou shalt hear from her own lips Whether she did not send this draught to thee, Charging me not to waste one precious drop. I know I should offend by drinking it. But thou mightst take it somewhat heedfully, Trying it drop by drop at first to prove Its virtue and its fitness to thy case." So Syrus pleaded; and his master said: "That is not spoken like a poisoner. But so thou darest, rascal, cast a doubt On what thy mistress sends in love to me? Thou shalt pay dear for that; for I shall tell Her thou presumedst to advise to me A care, forsooth, how I partook her cheer. Here, give it me, and I will toss it off-- One swallow--there!--and lay me down to sleep." Drusilla, soon thereafter called again To audience with the emperor, high in hope Went radiant with her beauty; but was vexed To find Poppæa seated by his side As if assessor of his judgment-throne. She sat resplendent in her robes of state, As queenly in her person and her port; Yet of a soft delicious loveliness That took Drusilla captive by its charm. Aspiring as she did to rival her Drusilla thought involuntary thoughts Of admiration mixed with jealousy: 'No wonder that she sits there throned by him, Imperial lovely creature that she is! That bloom of youth and beauty on her cheek! The tempting undulation of repose Suggested underneath the graceful folds Of vesture that flow down the supple limbs And softening into curves of lusciousness The statuesque perfection of her form! But pampered with what pains of luxury! They say five hundred asses follow her Wherever she makes progresses abroad And spend their milk to brim a bath for her, That her sweet flesh and delicate lose not That melting softness and that lucency!' 'The wanton!'--so she virtuously thought.