Poppea.  You may solicit your presumptious suites; You duety may, and shame too, lay aside; Disturbe my privacie, and I forsooth Must be afeard even to be angry at you!

Anton.  What shame is’t to be mastred by such beautie? 
Who but to serve you comes, how wants he dutie? 
Or, if it be a shame, the shame is yours;
The fault is onely in your Eies, they drew me: 
Cause you were lovely therefore did I love. 
O, if to Love you anger you so much,
You should not have such cheekes nor lips to touch,
You should not have your snow nor currall spy’d;—­
If you but looke on us in vaine you chide. 
We must not see your face, nor heare your speech;
Now, whilst you Love forbid, you Love do teach.

Petron.  He doth better than I thought he would.

Poppea.  I will not learne my beauties worth of you;
I know you neither are the first nor greatest
Whom it hath mov’d:  He whom the World obayes
Is fear’d with anger of my threatening eyes. 
It is for you afarre off to adore it,
And not to reach at it with sawsie hands: 
Feare is the Love that’s due to God and Princes.

Petron.  All this is but to edge his appetite.

Anton.  O doe not see thy faire in that false glasse
Of outward difference; Looke into my heart. 
There shalt thou see thy selfe Inthroaned set
In greater Maiesty then all the pompe
Of Rome or Nero.  Tis not the crowching awe
And Ceremony with which we flatter Princes
That can to Loves true duties be compar’d.

Poppea.  Sir, let me goe or He make knowne your Love To them that shall requite it but with hate.

Petron.  On, on, thou hast the goale; the fort is beaten; Women are wonne when they begin to threaten.

Anton.  Your Noblenesse doth warrant me from that,
Nor need you others helpe to punish me
Who by your forehead am condem’d or free. 
They that to be revendg’d do bend their minde
Seeke always recompence in that same kind
The wrong was done them; Love was mine offence,
In that revenge, in that seeke recompence.

Poppea.  Further to answere will still cause replyes,
And those as ill doe please me as your selfe. 
If you’le an answere take that’s breefe and true,
I hate my selfe if I be lov’d of you.
                                         [Exit Popp.

Petron.  What, gone? but she will come againe sure:  no? 
It passeth cleane my cunning, all my rules: 
For Womens wantonnesse there is no rule. 
To take her in the itching of her Lust,
A propper young man putting forth himselfe! 
Why, Fate! there’s Fate and hidden providence
In cod piece matters.

Anton.  O unhappy Man!  What comfort have I now, Petronius?

Petron.  Council your selfe; Ile teach no more but learne.