SENECA. Caesar, the Parthian and the British chiefs.
NERO. I cannot, sirs, so suddenly return Unto life's dreary business, or descend Out of the real to the unreal: from that Which is to that which is not. Leave me still. From art to empire is too swift a drop.
OTHO. Now what to do? Still drags the o'erlong day. We have driven, we have eaten, we have drunk. But all the brilliance is a burden still.
ANICETUS. No cloud upon the noon of this despair. O for some edge, some thrill unknown!
NERO. No, no--we have outlived All passions: terror now alone is left us. I have within me great capacities For terror: fear, the last, the greatest passion!
OTHO. Can one rely on death for something new? Some other life perhaps.
SENECA. The gods forbid! The Power that sent us here would lead us there. One sample is enough.
LUCAN. Death's a dull business, Of that one may be sure. What says the poet? 'When I am dead, let fire devour the world.'
[NERO _starts at these words and comes among them._
NERO. Nay, while I live! The sight! A burning world! And to be dead and miss it! There's an end Of all satiety: such fire imagine! Born in some obscure alley of the poor, Then leaping to embrace a splendid street, Palaces, temples, morsels that but whet Her appetite: the eating of huge forests: Then with redoubled fury rushing high, Smacking her lips over a continent, And licking old civilisations up! Then in tremendous battle fire and sea Joined: and the ending of the mighty sea: Then heaven in conflagration, stars like cinders Falling in tempest: then the reeling poles Crash: and the smouldering firmament subsides, And last, this universe a single flame!
[OTHO, _seeing the steward and musician, who have entered, speaks._
OTHO. Nothing is left us but to eat and drink.
[_Takes bill of fare which the steward passes to him._
You understand that in the perfect feast To please the palate only is not art, But we should minister to the eye and the ear With colour and with music. Introduce The embattled oysters with a melody Of waves that wash a reef--whence do they come?
NERO. Perhaps an angrier chord Of island surf might be permitted then. From Britain? Now I see thy uses, Britain. Britain is justified: she gives us oysters, And therefore Claudius invaded her. Sausages upon silver gridirons?