es: and to install you and your
husband, fair Chloe, in honours equal with ours, you shall be a
goddess, and your husband a god.

Chloe. A god!--O my gods!

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. Gentlemen, hear you the news?

Tib. What news, my Quintus!

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.

Cris. Make your approach, sweet captain.

Tib. What means this, Horace?

Hor. I am surprised again; farewell.

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.