_At the tomb of Britannicus, Enter OCTAVIA and
ATTENDANTS._
_OCTAVIA._
Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet,
Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour,
While yet your tender, fleshly hues remember
His fair young prime; then wither, droop, and die,
And with your changèd tissues paint my grief.
Nay, let those old wreaths lie, the shrivelled petals
Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down
About the steps: we mock death being trim. 1840
Now here another. Ah! see, set it you:
I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses
Weave a fit emblem—how they wait for noon
That comes to kill their promise, and the crown
Is but a mock one?
_ATTENDANT._
’Tis a good custom, lady,
To honour thus the tombs of those we love.
_Oct._ Custom! Is this a custom? Then I think
I wrong my sorrow in such common shows.
_Att._ Nay, it doth ease affliction to be busy;
And grief, that cannot reckon with a mystery, 1850
Is comforted by trifles.
_Oct._ Why, thou’rt wrong;
It brings no comfort.
_Att._ And ’tis kindly done
To hide the fresh-cut stone. Death is hard featured
In a new-built tomb.
_Oct._ O, hold thy peace! I see
Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas,
I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said,
Think not our gracious deed finds its account
In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven
More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed
The more abundantly that they are crimes 1860
In the sight of him that slew him.
_Att._ Speak not so,
Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught.
_Oct._ What would’st thou have me?
Knowing my sorrow thou should’st rather wonder,
And think it well that I speak sense at all.
_Att._ Let not such passion kill thy courage, lady;
The greatest die. There stands the tomb of Julius,
Whose mighty march was no less foully stayed
At noon of power: there is Augustus’ tomb,
Wherein so many lie...
_Oct._ Why, what are they
To me? Is’t not my brother that is dead? 1870
Whose life was mine, as needful to my day
As is the sun; as natural, old a want
To very life as is the bathing air
That my blood battens on. Take these away
And give him back; it then were likelier
I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine.
He is gone! O miserably, suddenly,
For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither?
_Att._ ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries
Wreaths such as ours. 1880
_Oct._ Let us begone in haste.
_Att._ Alas! she hath seen us, lady: ’tis too late.
_Oct._ I’ll but salute her. I pray you all keep back,
Nor speak with her attendants.
_Enter Agrippina, Fulvia, and Attendants._
_AGRIPPINA._
My dearest daughter,
I have longed for this embrace. Where else but here
Beside this sacred tomb should we have met?
I should have been much with thee in thy sorrow,
But am forbidden the palace.
_Oct._ I must thank thee
Doing this grace to my unhappy brother.
The gods grant thee kind messages. Farewell.
_Agr._ Nay, go not thus. See how I hang these garlands.
_Oct._ Not there, nay, not on mine; not there! thy grief 1891
Must own a lower place; mix not its show
With mine. He was my brother.
_Agr._ Thou art right.
Set them here, Fulvia. If my heart is wronged,
’Tis done unwittingly; thou canst not know.
_Oct._ I leave thee.
_Agr._ Grant one word.
_Oct._ Would’st thou be kind
’Twill be but one.
_Agr._ ’Tis this then: I am kind.
In sum ’twas this I came to say.
_Oct._ If hither
Thou didst but come to seek me, know I had chosen
The hour to be alone.
_Agr._ My dearest child, 1900
My injured child! See, I would have thee trust
My friendship. ’Twas my constant, loving wish
To right thy brother’s wrongs, and now my heart
Is wholly turned on thee.
_Oct._ Think not of me.
Am I not past all help? nor do I crave
The help that leads to death.
_Agr._ O never dream
That I had hand in that accursèd deed.
The terror of it rather hath possessed
My purpose with the justice of revenge. 1909
_Oct._ I cannot thank thee, and from thy messengers
Have gathered all. There’s nought to say. Farewell.
_Agr._ Thou dost not know Poppæa marries Cæsar.
_Oct._ Ay.
_Agr._ Thou consentest?
_Oct._ Say, would my refusal
Or my consent be counted?
_Agr._ It shall not be.
_Oct._ It matters not.
_Agr._ Thou lookest for divorce?
_Oct._ Can I remain his wife who killed my brother?
_Agr._ Thou art the last branch of the house of Claudius,
And if thou wilt forget the hurt now done thee,
May’st yet retrieve thy blood; but being too proud,
Wilt more dishonour what thou seemest to honour.
If now thou’rt brave, and wilt join hands with me...
_Oct._ O never, never! was it not that hand
That.... O my brother, with thy trait’rous foe
Make peace, and at thy tomb! Ask clemency
Of him that murdered thee! O never.—
Thou most dear shade, who wast too mild and kind,
If death seal not thy spiritual sense
To my loud sorrow, hear me! O thou my joy,
By whom the bitterness of life, my lot
Of horror, was quite sweetened,—cruelly, 1930
Most cruelly slain. Ay, I will all forget
When he who wrought this thing can bring again
Out of thy cold unmotionable ashes
The well-compacted body and grace of life.
Ay, if he make one smile of thine, although
It last no time, I will forget: but else,
I say, the thing he hath done, since so ’tis done
That he cannot undo it, he must o’er-do
Ere I forget.
_Agr._ I will be yet thy friend—
[_Exit Oct. with Attendants._
There comes no help from her. Maybe her grief
Is yet too fresh. Come, Fulvia, let us go. 1941
She would not speak with me. Now on all hands
Thou seest I am set aside, and count for nought.
Yet not for this am I a whit discouraged;
I shall rise yet. Am I not Agrippina? [_Exeunt._