popularity ever does; the conflagration had killed it.

Even as he wandered, lyre in hand, a train of Lesbians and
pederasts at his heels, through those halls which had risen on the
ruins, and which inexhaustible Greece had furnished with a fresh
crop of white immortals, the world rebelled. Afar on the outskirts
of civilization a vassal, ashamed of his vassalage, declared war,
not against Rome, but against an emperor that played the flute. In
Spain, in Gaul, the legions were choosing other chiefs. The
provinces, depleted by imperial exactions, outwearied by the
increasing number of accusers, whose accusations impoverishing
them served only to multiply the prodigalities of their Caesar,
revolted.

Suddenly Nero found himself alone. As the advancing rumor of
rebellion reached him, he thought of flight; there was no one that
would accompany him. He called to the pretorians; they would not
hear. Through the immensity of his palace he sought one friend.
The doors would not open. He returned to his apartment; the guards
had gone. Then terror seized him. He was afraid to die, afraid to
live, afraid of his solitude, afraid of Rome, afraid of himself;
but what frightened him most was that everyone had lost their fear
of him. It was time to go, and a slave aiding, he escaped in
disguise from Rome, and killed himself, reluctantly, in a hovel.

"Qualis artifex pereo!" he is reported to have muttered. Say
rather, qualis maechus.