Ovid Sr.  You were best tell it, captain.

Tuc.  No; fare thou well, mine honest horseman; and thou, old beaver. [To Lupus]-Pray thee, Roman, when thou comest to town, see me at my lodging, visit me sometimes? thou shalt be welcome. old boy.  Do not balk me, good swaggerer.  Jove keep thy chain from pawning; go thy ways, if thou lack money I’ll lend thee some; I’ll leave thee to thy horse now.  Adieu. . .

Ovid Sr.  Farewell, good captain.

Tuc.  Boy, you can have but half a share now, boy
                                         [Exit, followed by Pyrgus. 
Ovid Sr.  ’Tis a strange boldness that accompanies this fellow.  Come.

Ovid ju.  I’ll give attendance on you to your horse, sir, please you.

Ovid se.  No; keep your chamber, and fall to your studies; do so: 
The gods of Rome bless thee! [Exit with Lupus.

Ovid ju. 
   And give me stomach to digest this law: 
   That should have follow’d sure, had I been he. 
   O, sacred Poesy, thou spirit of arts,
   The soul of science, and the queen of souls;
   What profane violence, almost sacrilege,
   Hath here been offered thy divinities! 
   That thine own guiltless poverty should arm
   Prodigious ignorance to wound thee thus! 
   For thence is all their force of argument,
   Drawn forth against thee; or, from the abuse
   Of thy great powers in adulterate brains: 
   When, would men learn but to distinguish spirits
   And set true difference ’twixt those jaded wits
   That run a broken pace for common hire,
   And the high raptures of a happy muse,
   Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,
   That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,
   And beats at heaven gates with her bright hoofs;
   They would not then, with such distorted faces,
   And desperate censures, stab at Poesy. 
   They would admire bright knowledge, and their minds
   Should ne’er descend on so unworthy objects
   As gold, or titles; they would dread far more
   To be thought ignorant, than be known poor. 
   The time was once, when wit drown’d wealth; but now,
   Your only barbarism is t’have wit, and want. 
   No matter now in virtue who excels,
   He that hath coin, hath all perfection else.

Tib. [within.] Ovid!

Ovid.  Who’s there?  Come in. 
                                                   Enter Tibullus. 
Tib.  Good morrow, lawyer.

Ovid.  Good morrow, dear Tibullus; welcome:  sit down.

Tib.  Not I. What, so hard at it?  Let’s see, what’s here?  Numa in decimo nono.  I Nay, I will see it

Ovid.  Prithee away

Tib. 
   If thrice in field a man vanquish his foe,
   ’Tis after in his choice to serve or no. 
    How, now, Ovid!  Law cases in verse?

Ovid.  In truth, I know not; they run from my pen unwittingly if they be verse.  What’s the news abroad ?