Acte monologue (Act 2) — Nero

A woman without pity, beautiful. She makes the earth we tread on false, the heaven A merest mist, a vapour. Yet her face Is as the face of a child uplifted, pure; But plead with lightning rather than those eyes, Or earthquake rather than that gentle bosom Rising and falling near thy heart. Her voice Comes running on the ear as a rivulet; Yet if you hearken, you shall hear behind The breaking of a sea whose waves are souls That break upon a human-crying beach. Ever she smileth, yet hath never smiled, And in her lovely laughter is no joy. Yet hath none fairer strayed into the world, Or wandered in more witchery through the air, Since she who drew the dreaming keels of Greece After her over the Ionian foam.