free him of her quite. Now she too stands
In your own path. Your loveliness may work
Upon him: and we with policy the while--
Will you make cause with us?

POPPAEA. I understand.
You need this beauty as an added bait
To lure when policy can drive him not.
What do I gain at last?

TIGELLINUS. The throne itself.
Octavia is a shadow: cannot stand
Between you and the world: but Agrippina,
Never will suffer you while she has breath.

POPPAEA. I will not tempt him to a mother's murder.

TIGELLINUS. Nor do we ask it: only that you draw
His wandering fancy from her with a sweet
Interposition of this loveliness,
Free him of her, then bind him to yourself.

POPPAEA. I will attempt it. I will fly at it.
I go to him to Baiae this same day.

TIGELLINUS. Remember all the earth is in thy reach.

[_Exit_ TIGELLINUS.

POPPAEA _claps her hands--enter various maids_

POPPAEA. Lorilla, see, this henna is o'erdone.

LORILLA. O pardon, mistress.

POPPAEA. And you, Lalage,
My lips more brilliant.

LALAGE. Yet----

POPPAEA. Remember, child,
That I walk ever veiled: what in the sun
Glares, being veiled a finer richness takes
And more provokes: how many struggling flies
This veil, the web of mine, hath struggling held
Which else were freed!

[_Gazing at her face in mirror._

Ah! this left eyebrow--who?
Who painted this?

MAID. [_Trembling._] I, madam.

POPPAEA. You are young:
Else I would have you stripped and lashed till blood
Flew from you.

MAID. Mercy!

POPPAEA. Call old Lydia.
Lydia, this eyebrow--the old touch.

LYDIA. My hands
Tremble, but I'll essay.

POPPAEA. [_Gazing in mirror._] So--that is well.
Children, when there shall come, and come there must,
The smallest marring wrinkle on this face,
And come there must--our bodies fall like flowers,
This face shall feel the ruin of the rose--
When time, howe'er light, shall touch this cheek,
Then quick farewell! Listen, I will not live
Less lovely, nor this cruel beauty lose,
And I perforce grow kind: I'll not survive
The deep delicious poison of a smile
Nor mortal music of the sighing bosom
That slowly overcomes the fainting brain.
It shall not dawdle downward to the grave;
I'll pass upon the instant of perfection.
No woman shall behold Poppaea fade:
And now