your griefs and fate,
Which never hurts, but when we say it hurts us.

Prop.
O peace, Tibullus; your philosophy
Lends you too rough a hand to search my wounds.
Speak they of griefs, that know to sigh and grieve:
The free and unconstrained spirit feels
No weight of my oppression.
[Exit.
Ovid.
Worthy Roman!
Methinks I taste his misery, and could
Sit down, and chide at his malignant stars.

Jul. Methinks I love him, that he loves so truly.

Cyth. This is the perfect'st love, lives after death.

Gal. Such is the constant ground of virtue still.

Plau. It puts on an inseparable face.
[re-enter CHLOE.
Chloe. Have you mark'd every thing, Crispinus?

Cris. Every thing, I warrant you.

Chloe. What gentlemen are these? do you know them?

Cris. Ay, they are poets, lady.

Chloe. Poets! they did not talk of me since I went, did they?

Cris. O yes, and extolled your perfections to the heavens.

Chloe. Now in sincerity they be the finest kind of men that ever
I knew: Poets! Could not one get the emperor to make my husband
a poet, think you?

Cris. No, lady, 'tis love and beauty make poets: and since you like
poets so well, your love and beauties shall make me a poet.

Chloe. What! shall they? and such a one as these?

Cris. Ay, and a better than these: I would be sorry else.

Chloe. And shall your looks change, and your hair change, and all,
like these?

Cris. Why, a man may be a poet, and yet not change his hair, lady.

Chloe. Well, we shall see your cunning: yet, if you can change your
hair, I pray do.
[Re-enter Albius.
Alb. Ladies, and lordlings, there's a slight banquet stays within
for you; please you draw near, and accost it.

Jul. We thank you, good Albius: but when shall we see those
excellent jewels you are commended to have?

Alb. At your ladyship's service.--I got that speech by seeing a
play last day, and it did me some grace now: I see, 'tis good to
collect sometimes; I'll frequent these plays more than I have done,
now I come to be familiar with courtiers. [Aside.

Gal. Why, how now, Hermogenes? what ailest thou, trow?

Her, A little melancholy; let me alone, prithee.

Gal. Melancholy I how so?

Her. With riding: a plague o