Tib. To tell you the female truth, which is the simple truth, ladies; and to shew that poets, in spite of the world, are able to deify themselves; at this banquet, to which you are invited, we intend to assume the figures of the gods; and to give our several loves the forms of goddesses. Ovid will be Jupiter; the princess Julia, Juno; Gallus here, Apollo; you, Cytheris, Pallas; I will be Bacchus; and my love Plautia, Ceres: and to install you and your husband, fair Chloe, in honours equal with ours, you shall be a goddess, and your husband a god.
Tib. A god, but a lame god, lady; for he shall be Vulcan, and you Venus: and this will make our banquet no less than heavenly.
Chloe. In sincerity, it will be sugared. Good Jove, what a pretty foolish thing it is to be a poet! but, hark you, sweet Cytheris, could they not possibly leave out my husband? methinks a body's husband does not so well at court; a body's friend, or so--but, husband! 'tis like your clog to your marmoset, for all the world, and the heavens.
Cyth. Tut, never fear, Chloe! your husband will be left without in the lobby, or the great chamber, when you shall be put in, i'the closet, by this lord, and by that lady.
Chloe. Nay, then I am certified; he shall go. [Enter HORACE. Gal. Horace! welcome.
Hor. Our melancholic friend, Propertius, Hath closed himself up in his Cynthia's tomb; And will by no entreaties be drawn thence. [Enter Albius, introducing CRISPINUS and DEMETRIUS, followed by Tucca. Alb. Nay, good Master Crispinus, pray you bring near the gentleman. [Going Hor. Crispinus! Hide me, good Gallus; Tibullus, shelter me.
Gal. Stay, Horace. [Exit hastily. Tib 'Slight, I hold my life This same is he met him in Holy-street.
Hor. What, and be tired on by yond' vulture! No: Phoebus defend me!
Gal. Troth, 'tis like enough.--This act of Propertius relisheth very strange with me.
Tuc. By thy leave, my neat scoundrel: what, is this the mad boy you talk'd on?
Cris. Ay, this is master Albius, captain.
Tuc. Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad thou art the Hector of citizens: What sayest thou? are we welcome to thee, noble Neoptolemus?
Alb. Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the Capitol--
Tuc. No more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy wedlock, Menelaus? thy Helen, thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour, mad boy.