SENECA. This day must Nero leave his mother's lap, And stand up as an Emperor, and alone.
[_Sounds heard of_ NERO _approaching amid cries of 'O thou Apollo!' 'Orpheus come again!' Then enter NERO with a group of satellites,_ TIGELLINUS, OTHO, _and professional applauders and spies. His dress is of extreme oriental richness, and profuse in jewels: his hair elaborately curled. He carries an emerald eye-glass, and appears faint from the exertion of singing, from which contest he has just come._
NERO. This languor is the penalty the gods Exact from those whom they have gifted high.
SENECA. [_Coming forward._] Sir, late arrived from Parthia and Britain----
NERO. [_Starting up._] A draught! [_Much hurry, zeal, and confusion among courtiers._ This kerchief closer round my throat! [_They tie a kerchief round his throat._ Was I in voice to-day? The prize is won, But I would be my own competitor And my own rival. Was I then in voice?
CHORUS. O Memnon struck with morning, nightingale, Ghost-charming Orpheus, O Apollo--god!
SATELLITE. O Caesar, I am one who speaks right out; If it means death, yet must I speak the truth. Thy voice was harsh.
SATELLITE. Harsh and uncertain. Had it been another Who sang, it would have ravished every ear, But thee must I remember at thy best, And what in others we count excellence In thee we count a lapse, and falling off.
1ST SPY. [_Stealing forward._] Licinius smiled, sir, at thy final note.
NERO. Nothing! an artist must bear ridicule. Were I incensed, I were ridiculous Myself.
2ND SPY. [_Stealing forward._] Sir, Labienus, in thy second song Coughed twice.
ANOTHER SPY. [_Cringing._] Nay, Caesar, thrice.
NERO. None! Interruption must I learn to bear. What patience must we own who would excel! Anger I never must permit myself, Or ruffling littleness to this great soul.
3RD SPY. [_Creeping forward._] Sir, Titus Cassius yawned while thou didst sing.
4TH SPY. Nay, Caesar, worse, he slept, and must he live?
NERO. [_Gently._] No! he must die: there is no hope in sleep. Witness, you gods, who sent me on the earth To be a joy to men: and witness you Who stand around: if ever a small malice Hath governed me: what critic have I feared? What rival? Have I used this mighty throne To baulk opinion or suppress dissent? Have I not toiled for art, forsworn food, sleep, And laboured day and night to win the crown, Lying with weight of lead upon my chest? Ye gods, there is no rancour in this soul. [_Thunder._ Silence while I am speaking. He must die, Because he is unmindful of your gifts And of the golden voice on me bestowed, To me no credit; and he shall not die Hopeless, for ere he die I'll sing to him This night, that he may pass away in music. How foolish will he peer amid the shades When Orpheus asks, 'Hast thou heard Nero sing?' If he must answer 'No!' I would not have him Arrive ridiculous amid the dead.