"There was Poppæa sitting by his side That day!" Drusilla bitterly exclaimed. "And knowest thou by what arts her place she won?" Pressed Simon; "she was not afraid to impose Conditions on her lover; she told him, 'Thou must do thus, and thus,' and he admired Her for her spirit, and succumbed; do thou Likewise, and prove thy right to reign--by reigning. It is not quite so proud to reign, I grant Thee, as to spurn; but bend thy pride so much: Spurning is fine, but reigning profits more." "Thou hast well advised, my Simon," with strong qualms Subdued of pride, and loathing sprung from pride, Drusilla made reply; and Simon left The humbled woman to her wretchedness. For she no longer now deceived herself, Or was by Simon deceived, to keep her hope Of splendid triumph by the emperor's side. Salt tears and bitter, after he had gone, She stained the queenly beauty of her face Withal and quenched the brilliance of her eyes. Her chalice was of disappointment full; She had sinned, and she was still to sin, in vain: She knew it, but she did not change her choice. Her only comfort in her hour of shame Was that at least a drop of sweet revenge And malice gratified might mingle yet-- A dash of soothing--in the draught she drank; She yet might see her heart's desire on Paul. What if thou dost, Drusilla! Thou wilt see The hated dying, not as one who dies, Rather as one who, borne aloft and crowned, Rides celebrating triumph over death! The while thou seest exalted to the place Thou fain hadst purchased for thyself with crime Poppæa, empress by the emperor throned, Spouse in the room of young Octavia slain. Go, wretched woman, with thy little son Beside thee, down the valley of the years-- Years few and evil, full of many woes-- Until thou shalt with him be overwhelmed In that volcano ruin, thy fit doom! With first obeisance to Poppæa paid (And blithe report to her of progress good Toward what she wished--wanting, he cheerly thought, But one more audience to attain the goal) Simon betook him to the emperor, Who greeted him with: "Well, what, pander? Speak! No parley, no ambages; great affairs Are now engaging me. Is all arranged? What is the night appointed? O, I see Broad written over all thy countenance, Palter, pretext, delay, to tantalize Forsooth and tease a lover's eagerness. But I am in no mood to be played with; Thou balkest me at thy peril; speak, man, speak! What message does the fair Drusilla send?"