the noon of this despair.
O for some edge, some thrill unknown!

LUCAN. Remorse?

[NERO _shakes his head._

SENECA. Jealousy then?

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._

NERO. The feast!

[_Takes bill of fare from_ OTHO.

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?

STEWARD. From Britain, sir.

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?

STEWARD. Yes.

NERO. Dormice with poppies and milk honey? There
A slumberous music, heavy lingering chords.
Ah! slices of pomegranate underneath.
Snow--purest snow of course.

STEWARD. 'Twas not forgot.

NERO.