Poppaea Monologue from Nero

From Nero by Stephen Phillips

female · defiant · 1:10 min

You are young: Else I would have you stripped and lashed till blood Flew from you. (MAID: Mercy!) Call old Lydia. Lydia, this eyebrow--the old touch. (LYDIA: My hands Tremble, but I'll essay.) (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 to Baiae!

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