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You bad the Magi call the dreadful powers,
That read futurity, to know the fate
Impending o'er your son: Their answer was,
If the son reign, the mother perishes.
Perish (you cry’d) the mother! reign the son !
He reigns, the rest is heav’n’s; who oft has bad,
Ev'n when its will seem'd wrote in lines of blood,
Th' unthought event disclose a whiter meaning.
Think too how oft in weak and sickly minds
The sweets of kindness lavishly indulg'd
Rankle to gall; and benefits too great
To be repaid, sit heavy on the soul,
As unrequited wrongs. The willing homage
Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause,
The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures,
That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway;
These were your gift, and with them you bestow'd
The very power he has to be ungrateful.


Thus ever grave, and undisturb'd reflection
Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear
Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not.
Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent,
And tremble at the phantom I have rais’d?
Carry to him thy timid counsels. He
Perchance may heed’em: Tell him too, that one,

Who had such liberal power to give, may still
With equal power resume that gift, and raise
A tempest, that shall shake her own creation
To its original atoms---tell me! say
This mighty Emperor, this dreaded Hero,
Has he beheld the glittering front of war?
Knows his soft ear the Trumpet's thrilling voice,
And outcry of the battle? Have his limbs
Sweat under iron harness? Is he not
The silken son of dalliance, nurs'd in Ease
And Pleasure's flowery lap?---Rubellius lives,
And Sylla has his friends, tho’school'd by fear
To bow the supple knee, and court the times
With shows of fair obeisance; and a call,
Like mine, might serve belike to wake pretensions
Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine blood
Of our imperial house.


Did I not wish to check this dangerous passion,
I might remind my mistress that her nod
Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem
With stubborn nerves the tide, and face the rigour
Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less brave,
That in Armenia quell the Parthian force
Under the warlike Corbulo, by you
Mark'd for their leader: These, by ties confirm’d,

Of old respect and gratitude, are yours.
Surely the Masians too, and those of Egypt,
Have not forgot your sire: The eye of Rome
And the Prætorian camp have long rever'd,
With custom'd awe, the daughter, sister, wife,
And mother of their Casars,


Ha! by Juno,
It bears a noble semblance. On this base
My great revenge shall rise; or say we sound
The trump of liberty; there will not want,
Even in the servile senate, ears to own
Her spirit-stirring voice; Soranus there,
And Cassius; Vetus too, and Thrasea,
Minds of the antique cast, rough, stubborn souls,
That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark
Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts,
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd
(Slaves from the womb, created but to stare,
And bellow in the Circus) yet will start,
And shake 'em at the name of liberty,
Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition,
As there were magic in it? wrinkled beldams
Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare
That anciently appear’d, but when, extends
Beyond their chronicle---oh! 'tis a cause

To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace
The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied

Yes, we may meet, ingrateful boy, we may!
Again the buried genius of old Rome
Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head,
Rous'd by the shout of millions : There before
His high tribunal thou and I appear.
Let majesty sit on thy awful brow,
And lighten from thy eye: Around thee call
The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine
Of thy full favour; Seneca be there
In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence
To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it
With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming.
Against thee, liberty and Agrippina:
The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.

But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly These hated walls, that seem to mock my shame, And cast me forth in duty to their lord.


'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanc’d, And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baiæ.


My thought aches at hiin; not the basilisk

More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees me,


Why then stays my sovereign,
Where he so soon may-----


Yes, I will be gone,
But not to Antium---all shall be confess'd,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame
Has spread among the crowd; things, that but whisper'd
Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted
His eyes in fearful extasy: No matter
What; so't be strange, and dreadful.---Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings---the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.

And you, ye manes of ambition's victims,
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts
Of the Syllani, doom'd to carly death,
(Ye unavailing horrours, fruitless crimes !)
If from the realms of night my voice ye hear,
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse,
Accept my vengeance. Tho' by me ye bled,
Ie was the cause. My love, my fears for him

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