er had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with
which Lucretius's hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that
feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such tortures
to his subjects. "Be not cruel, O Caesar!"

"Be not cruel!" repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he had to yield. All faces assumed
then an expression of gratitude, and all eyes were turned to him; but he
gave command first to announce to Poppaea that he would sing; he informed
those present that she had not come to the feast, because she did not
feel in good health; but since no medicine gave her such relief as his
singing, he would be sorry to deprive her of this opportunity.

In fact, Poppaea came soon. Hitherto she had ruled Nero as if he had
been her subject, but she knew that when his vanity as a singer, a
charioteer, or a poet was involved, there was danger in provoking it.
She came in therefore, beautiful as a divinity, arrayed, like Nero,
in robes of amethyst color, and wearing a necklace of immense pearls,
stolen on a time from Massinissa; she was golden-haired, sweet, and
though divorced from two husbands she had the face and the look of a
virgin.

She was greeted with shouts, and the appellation "Divine Augusta." Lygia
had never seen any one so beautiful, and she could not believe her own
eyes, for she knew that Poppaea Sabina was one of the vilest women on
earth. She knew from Pomponia that she had brought Caesar to murder his
mother and his wife; she knew her from accounts given by Aulus's guests
and the servants; she had heard that statues to her had been thrown
down at night in the city; she had heard of inscriptions, the writers
of which had been condemned to severest punishment, but which still
appeared on the city walls every morning. Yet at sight of the notorious
Poppaea, considered by the confessors of Christ as crime and evil
incarnate, it seemed to her that angels or spirits of heaven might look
like her. She was unable simply to take her eyes from Poppaea; and from
her lips was wrested involuntarily the question,--"Ah, Marcus, can it be
possible?"

But he, roused by wine, and as it were impatient that so many things
had scattered her attention, and taken her from him and his words,
said,--"Yes, she is beautiful, but thou art a hundred times more
beautiful. Thou dost not know thyself, or thou wouldst be in love with
thyself, as Narcissus was; she bathes in asses' milk,