o_ without perceiving that he is imbued with the knowledge
of classical things and times, and with the study of Shakespeare and
the old English playwrights. The turn of the phrases and the march of
the passages recall those best models, though without imitation. As
in them, there is less beauty than vigor and spirit: the dialogue is
strewn with expressions as striking as they are simple. Speaking of
Claudius's murder, Burrhus says:

And Agrippina, startled, pushed him down
The dark declivity to death.

Agrippina herself to Nero:

Oh what a day it was
When, with a shout that seemed to rend the air,
The army hailed you Caesar! _My poor heart
Shook like the standards straining to the breeze
With that great cheer of triumph_.

The finest portions of the play are those in which Agrippina has the
principal part, and, notwithstanding some flaws and inconsistencies
in the character, which is evidently meant to be complete and
homogeneous, the whole impression is very forcible and _single_. Her
final menace (Act ii., Scene 5) when Nero defies her, the terrible
scene in which she tries to regain her failing influence by kindling
unholy fire in his blood, her rage at the inaction and ignorance of
her forced retirement, her monologue when she knows that her last
hour has come, are all of a piece and exceedingly well sustained. The
dramatic ends of the play would have been better answered if she and
her son had been the central figures, and the tragedy had ended with
her death. Poppaea is closely studied: her petty, feline personality
contrasts well with the large, imperial presence of Agrippina. Nero
himself is not so successful as a whole: his puerility in the first
part is overdone, though as the play goes on the creation takes
definite shape, and becomes at once more complex and more distinct.
The invariable recurrence of his vanity at the most tremendous moments
is admirably managed: it is like an unconscious trick of look or
gesture for which we watch. In his first outburst of grief at Poppaea's
death he cries:

How still she lies!
How perfect in her calm! No more distress,
No agitations more, no joy, no pain.
I'll keep her as she is. Fire shall not burn
That lovely shape; but it shall sleep embalmed--
Thus, thus for ever in the Julian tomb,
And she shall be enrolled among the gods.
A splendid temple shall be raised to her,
A public funeral be hers, _and I
The