Tigellinus_, bee't[77]
Thy charge, and let me see thee witty in't.

_Tigell_. Come, sirrah;
Weele see how stoutly you'le stretch out your necke.

_Flav_. Wold thou durst strike as stoutly.
[_Exit Tigell. and Flav_.

_Nero_. And what's hee there?

_Epaphr_. One that in whispering oreheard[78]
What pitie 'twas, my Lord, that _Pisoe_ died.

_Nero_. And why was't pitie, sirrah, _Pisoe_ died?

_Yong_. My Lord, 'twas pitie he deserv'd to die.

_Poppaea_. How much this youth my _Otho_ doth resemble; (_aside_.)
_Otho_ my first, my best love who is now
(Under pretext of governing) exyl'd
To _Lucitania_, honourably banish't.

_Nero_. Well, if you be so passionate,
Ile make you spend your pitie on your Prince
And good men, not on traytors.

_Yong_. The Gods forbid my Prince should pitie need.
Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirre
Oth' fraile and weake condition of our kind,
Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterday
The world but _Caesar_ could shew nothing higher.
Besides, some vertues and some worth he had,
That might excuse my pitie to an end
So cruell and unripe.

_Poppaea_. I know not how this stranger moves my mind. (_Aside_.)
His face me thinkes is not like other mens,
Nor do they speake thus. Oh, his words invade
My weakned senses and overcome my heart.

_Nero_. Your pitie shewes your favour and your will,
Which side you are inclinde too, had you[79] power:
You can but pitie, else should _Caesar_ feare.
Your ill affection then shall punisht bee.
Take him to execution; he shall die
That the death pities of mine enemie.

_Yong_. This benefit at least
Sad death shall give, to free me from the power
Of such a government; and if I die
For pitying humane chance and _Pisoes_ end
There will be some too that will pitie mine.

_Poppaea_. O what a dauntlesse looke, what sparkling eyes, (_aside.)_
Threating in suffering! sure some noble blood
Is hid in ragges; feares argues a base spirit;
In him what courage and contempt of death!
And shall I suffer one I love to die?
He shall not die.--Hands of this man! Away!
_Nero_, thou shalt not kill this guiltlesse man.

_Nero_. He guiltlesse? Strumpet!

(_Spurns her, and Poppaea falls_.)

She is in love with the smooth face of the boy.

_Neoph_. Alas, my Lord, you have slaine her.

_Epaphr_. Helpe, she dies.

_Nero_. _Poppaea, Poppaea_, speake, I am not angry;
I did not meane to hurt thee; speake, sweet love.