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O happy Drusilla,
oh, what dream is this?
The crucial moment of my life approaches fast:
my rival is about to die
and Otho will be mine at last!
O happy Drusilla,
oh, what dream, what dream is this?
There she is, the evil woman,
who, hoping to escape suspicion, has changed her clothes.
Of what crime, what...
Halt! You shall die for this!
For what crime am I to die?
Still feigning ignorance, bloodthirsty wretch?
You plotted to kill Poppaea as she slept.
Alas, dear friend! Alas, cruel fate!
Alas for my innocent clothes!
I can only blame myself, none other.
I was too ingenuous,
I was too rash.
My lord, there is the criminal
who tried to stab mistress Poppaea!
The lamb was sleeping in her own garden
when she appeared, drawn sword in hand.
Had your devoted handmaid not awoken
the savage blow would have fallen.
How dared you?
And who persuaded you to this foul act?
I am innocent
before my conscience and before God.
Whips, rack and fire
shall drag from her the names of the ringleader and accomplices.
Woe is me!
Rather than be forced by unbearable tortures
to reveal that which I must keep secret
I shall take upon myself the crime and the sentence of death.
- What are you mumbling about? - Are you raving, murderess?
What did you say, traitress?
I am torn by a cruel mental conflict
between love and innocence.
Before my anger forces me
to order my torturers to do their worst
renounce this obstinacy
and confess your treacherous plot.
My lord, I am the guilty person
who attempted to kill the innocent Poppaea.
Lead this woman to the executioner at once!
Tell him to devise a means of death
that will cause prolonged and dreadful agony
and make excruciating
this criminal's end.
No, no, it is I upon whom this sentence must be passed
for I have deserved it.
Dressed in Drusilla's clothes I went,
as commanded by Empress Octavia,
to make an attempt upon Poppaea's life.
Kill me, my lord, with your own hand.
I am the guilty one who planned to kill the innocent Poppaea.
Jupiter, Nemesis, Astraea, hurl your bolts upon my head
for I have justly deserved the dreadful death that awaits me.
- I deserve it! - I deserve it!
- I do! - I deserve it! I do!
My lord, let me die by your hand.
Live, but go to the remotest deserts,
stripped of all your titles and your wealth,
and as you wander, begging and destitute,
your crime will serve you for both scourge and cave.
And you who risked so much, O noble lady,
to protect this man by lying to save his life,
live to shed honour on my clemency,
live in the glory of your fortitude
and may your constancy, throughout our age,
be a revered example to your sex.
In exile with him, my lord, pray grant
that I live out my days in happiness.
As you wish.
My lord, I am not punished,
rather rewarded.
The virtues of this lady will be the wealth and glory of my life.
I have resolved
and now by solemn edict pronounce Octavia's repudiation
and I banish her from Rome
into permanent exile.
Let her be taken to the nearest shore,
put immediately aboard a well-caulked boat
and left to the mercy of the winds.
My displeasure is fully justified.
Obey me at once!
Idol of my heart!
The time has come at last when I can enjoy what is mine.
No more delays, no obstacles can come between us.
Say no more, say no more.
My heart is no longer in my breast:
you have stolen it, yes, yes,
you have stolen it away
with the brightness of your eyes.
Because of you, my love, I have no heart.
My loving arms shall twine
about the one who captivated me,
alas!
Your hours of bliss will know no interruption.
lf I am lost in you, in you shall I find myself again.
lf I am lost in you, in you shall I find myself again.
In you I shall find myself again
and lose myself again, dear heart,
for I would be for ever lost in you.
In you I wish
to be lost for ever.
Farewell, Rome,
farewell, my fatherland,
my friends, farewell!
Though innocent, I must leave you.
I face an exile of bitter tears,
sailing the heedless seas, devoid of hope.
The winds that from time to time will receive my breath
shall bear it in my heart's name
to look upon and kiss the walls of Rome.
And I shall be alone,
weeping and pacing up and down by turn,
teaching compassion to the very stones.
Now ply your oars, perfidious men,
carry me far
from the beloved shore!
Ah, sacrilegious grief,
you forbid me to weep as I leave my fatherland
nor may I shed a single tear
while bidding to my family and to Rome...
farewell.
Today Poppaea will become Empress of Rome.
I, her nurse,
will go up in the world.
I shall not stoop now, no, no, to hobnob with the herd.
Those who were once familiar with me
must change their tune
and trill ''Your ladyship''.
Those who meet me in the street now say:
''How youthful, still a beauty,''
and I, though I know I look like one of the ancient, legendary sibyls,
while everyone flatters me like this because they think
by wooing me to curry favour with Poppaea,
I,
pretending to believe their lies,
lap praises from the chalice of deceit.
Born a slave,
I shall die a noblewoman.
Death will not be welcome.
Were I to live again
I would rather be born noble
and die a slave.
Those who must quit the high life
weep when it is time to die
but servants
are better off
because they welcome death
as a release from toil.
See, here come the consuls and tribunes
to honour you, my darling.
The mere sight of you has made both the populace and the Senate
begin to feel privileged.
O august sovereign,
with the universal consent of Rome
we place the diadem upon your brow.
Asia and Africa bow down to you.
Europe and the sea
that girdles this happy empire
acknowledge you and present you
with this crown imperial of the world.
- I gaze at you. - I possess you.
- I press you to me. - I clasp you.
- No more pain. - No more deathly grief.
O my life, my treasure.
- I am yours, my dearest. - Yours am I, say you love me, too.
- Say you love me, too, my dearest. - You are the idol of my heart.
You are my love, yes, my heart, my life, oh, yes.
- I gaze at you. - I possess you.
- I press you to me. - I clasp you.
- No more pain. - No more deathly grief.
O my life, my treasure.