_A room in the Palace. Enter AGRIPPINA._
_AGRIPPINA._
Thus must it be then. I must be cast out,
Turned from the palace, lodged in a private house,
Retired, reduced, forgotten, like any relic 1370
Of barbarous royalty, caged out of reach
Of good or ill; my state just so much show
As has no meaning. Now may some god of mischief
Dare set me in the roll of puny spirits.
Ah!—Hath this my seal, seemeth it? O may my foes
Be fooled so far to think that guile will stay
First in catastrophe. Nay, if I crouch,
’Tis but to plant a foot whence I may bound
With braver spring.—I am clear; the right’s my hope.
Right against blood hath still been honourable. 1380
Men love the name of Brutus. The first Brutus
Slew his own son; the last his Cæsar. Ha!
’Tis madness; nay, that’s not my thought, not that.
’Twould fright the world that there should be a woman
Who could slay Cæsar and son in one. Nay, nay,
That lies beyond all fate. Yet, short of that,—
O blood, thou sacrament and bond of nature,
Look to the strain: summon thy best allies,
Thy yearnings and thy shudderings, thy terrors
And dreams of dread; marshal the myriad fingers
Of scorn and hate: else, O thy rottenness 1391
Will out. Indeed I think thou’rt a weak thing,
Bred of opinion; when I would have trusted thee,
Hath not that other rivet of thy chain
Snapped at the mutual end? Thy boasted anchor
Drags on the bottom, and my ship drifts on
To the rocks, to the rocks: missing that hold, the sense
Is dizzy with madness; ay, and whither I go
Is hidden; nor aught I know, save that the future,
Whate’er it be, I shall do much to make. 1400
_Enter Britannicus._
Ah! ah! ’tis thee.
Speak softly, for these walls have ears.
_BRITANNICUS._
Thou thinkest
That Cæsar watches me.
_Agr._ To-day thy spies
Are mine, but must not hear.
_Br._ Hast thou seen Burrus?
_Agr._ He is thine enemy: no hope from him.
_Br._ I would not have this spoken of as my hope.
_Agr._ True, boy. I mentioned not thy name, and Nero,
Being now persuaded thou art innocent,
Forgives thee. Let the risk I ran for thee
Be earnest of more good. 1410
_Br._ I thank thee for it.
_Agr._ ’Tis nothing, this. Thou yet shalt reign.
_Br._ I pray thee
Draw me not into thy deep-plotted schemes
That rush on guilt. If I have hope or wish,
’Tis but to live till the divorce be writ
’Twixt Cæsar and my sister: that is not long
To wait; and then her exile, which must follow,
If I may share, I think some days of peace
May be in store for both. That is my hope,
Not Rome, nor empire, but some tranquil spot
Where innocence may dwell, and be allowed 1420
To be its own protection.
_Agr._ Are you that fool?
_Br._ I would none doubted it.
_Agr._ Can it be possible
That thou, who in thy veins hast the best blood
Of Rome, should’st own so beggarly a spirit,
And being the heir of all the world should’st wish
Only to hide thy claim, so thou may’st live
The life which broken-hearted slaves, and men
Diseased and aged scarce prize?
_Br._ I hear, I hear,
And am not shamed.
_Agr._ Nay, then I have more to say.
_Br._ I too might say somewhat. Is it not strange,
Thou being a lady, should’st possess a heart 1431
So fond of wrong, and blood, and wrathful deeds?
_Agr._ Ah, ah! Thou thinkest that thou know’st me rightly,
And yet would’st dare to taunt me, and to thwart
My stablished purpose? Child, I say, remember
The deeds thou castest in my teeth, and think
Whether it were not much better now at last
To side with me, and take the help I proffer.
I have sworn to set thee on the throne; think twice
Ere thou oppose my will.
_Br._ Did’st thou not say 1440
Thou had’st persuaded Nero of my innocence?
_Agr._ Say I was wrong.
_Br._ Nay, thou wert right in that,
Wrong now returning on disclaimed ambition.
_Agr._ Art thou content to see thyself deposed,
Thy sister thus dishonoured....
_Br._ Say no more.
_Agr._ Consider!
_Br._ Nay, I’ll not consider.
_Agr._ Now
This once again I bid thee, child, consider.
Doubt not my power.
_Br._ No more. I will not join thee.
_Agr._ Then hear me, child. Whether thou join or not,
Whether thou wilt be Cæsar, or refusest, 1450
Thou shalt be Cæsar. If thou wilt not plot,
It shall be plotted for thee: in my hands
I hold thy life, and guard it but for this,
To make thee Cæsar. Ay, and if thou shrinkest
When the day comes, I’ll have a doll made like thee;
My men shall carry it about, and style it
Britannicus, and shout to it as to Cæsar.
I say thou shalt be Cæsar, think it o’er.
Dare not refuse me: ’tis not yet too late;
To-morrow I will speak with thee again. 1460
Now to thy better thought. [_Exit._
_Br._ O murderess!
And for this last turn must I thank my folly,
That partly trusted her. Now would to heaven,
If live I must, that I might change my lot
With any man soe’er, though he be chosen
And picked for misery. Surely there’s none
In all the empire can show cause to stand
And weigh his woe with mine. Find me the man,
If such there be, that hath an only sister
’Spoused to a murderer and adulterer, 1470
Who hates her virtue, since it shames pretext
To cast her off: or, if such man be found,
Hath he for mother one that slew his father,
And threats him with like death? or if all this
Be matched in one, hath he no remedy?
Is his speech treason? Is his silence treason?
Is he quite friendless, helpless?
Forbidden to budge a foot from the dread focus
Of crime and anguish? ’Mongst his lesser wrongs
Hath he this brag, that he hath been robbed, as I,
Of the empire of the world? O happy hinds, 1481
Who toil under clear skies, and for complaint
Discuss long hours, low wages, meagre food,
Hard beds and scanty covering: ye who trail
A pike in German swamps, or shield your heads
On Asian sands, I’d welcome all your griefs
So I might taste the common nameless joys
Which ye light-heartedly so lightly prize,
And know not what a text for happiness
Lies in a thoughtless laugh: what long, impassable,
Unmeasured gulfs of joy sunder it off 1491
From my heart-stifling woe.
_Enter Octavia._
Thou art welcome, sister.
_OCTAVIA._
Brother, a request you must grant.
_Br._ Anything,
Dearest, to thee.
_Oct._ Sup not to-night with Cæsar.
_Br._ I must. Yet what’s thy reason? Thou art moved
Strangely beyond the matter.
_Oct._ Read this paper.
_Br._ (_reads_). _Britannicus, sup not to-day with Cæsar._
How came you by it?
_Oct._ ’Tis from Fulvia,
The maid that loves Seleucus; whence ’tis his.
_Br._ Most like; I know the turbaned mountebank
Keeps an old kindness for me. Yet nay, nay— 1500
If this should now be found—nay, he’s too shrewd
To put himself in writing.
_Oct._ He might dare
With Fulvia.
_Br._ Nay. I cannot think ’tis his.
And were it, what’s his credit? I do not trust
These fellows far. They trade in mystery,
And love to thicken water,—and if there be
A plot to poison me, to-day’s occasion
Offers no easier vantage than to-morrow’s.
My safety lies elsewhere.
_Oct._ O do not go.
_Br._ Fear not, Octavia, I am very careful, 1510
And eat but sparingly of any dish,
Nor aught but what goes round. To stay away
Might show suspicion, and could serve no end.
_Oct._ Brother, be warned, go not to-night; to-morrow
We may learn more. I beg...
_Br._ Nay, urge me not,
Since with this warning I am doubly safe.
_Oct._ Oh, I dread Nero’s anger; ’tis most certain
That ill will come of it.
_Br._ Nay, fear him not.
Let us go sup. I will use all precaution, 1519
Thou may’st be sure, since for thy sake I do it:
And while thou livest I shall have both reason
And wish to live. Have care, too, for thyself;
I think thy peril is no less than mine. [_Exeunt._