Tib.  Off with this. gown; I come to have thee walk.

Ovid.  No, good Tibullus, I’m not now in case.  Pray let me alone.

Tib.  How!  Not in case? 
   Slight, thou’rt in too much case, by all this law.

Ovid. 
   Troth, if I live, I will new dress the law
   In sprightly Poesy’s habiliments.

Tib.  The hell thou wilt!  What! turn law into verse Thy father has school’d thee, I see.  Here, read that same; There’s subject for you; and, if I mistake not, A supersedeas to your melancholy.

Ovid.  How! subscribed Julia!  O my life, my heaven!

Tib.  Is the mood changed ?

Ovid. 
   Music of wit! note for th’ harmonious spheres! 
   Celestial accents, how you ravish me!

Tib.  What is it, Ovid?

Ovid.  That I must meet my Julia, the princess Julia.

Tib.  Where?

Ovid.  Why, at—–­
   Heart, I’ve forgot; my passion so transports me.

Tib. 
   I’ll save your pains:  it is at Albius’ house,
   The jeweller’s, where the fair Lycoris lies.

Ovid.  Who?  Cytheris, Cornelius Gallus’ love?

Tib.  Ay, he’ll be there too, and my Plautia.

Ovid.  And why not your Delia?

Tib.  Yes, and your Corinna.

Ovid. 
   True; but, my sweet Tibullus, keep that secret
   I would not, for all Rome, it should be thought
   I veil bright Julia underneath that name: 
   Julia, the gem and jewel of my soul,
   That takes her honours from the golden sky,
   As beauty doth all lustre from her eye. 
   The air respires the pure Elysian sweets
   In which she breathes, and from her looks descend
   The glories of the summer.  Heaven she is,
   Praised in herself above all praise; and he
   Which hears her speak, would swear the tuneful orbs
   Turn’d in his zenith only.

Tib.  Publius, thou’It lose thyself.

Ovid. 
   O, in no labyrinth can I safelier err,
   Than when I lose myself in praising her. 
   Hence, law, and welcome Muses, though not rich,
   Yet are you pleasing:  let’s be reconciled,
   And new made one.  Henceforth, I promise faith
   And all my serious hours to spend with you;
   With you, whose music striketh on my heart,
   And with bewitching tones steals forth my spirit,
   In Julia’s name; fair Julia:  Julia’s love
   Shall be a law, and that sweet law I’ll study,
   The law and art of sacred Julia’s love: 
   All other objects will but abjects prove.

Tib.  Come, we shall have thee as passionate as Propertius, anon.

Ovid.  O, how does my Sextus?

Tib.  Faith, full of sorrow for his Cynthia’s death.

Ovid.  What, still?

Tib. 
   Still, and still more, his griefs do grow upon him
   As do his hours.  Never did I know
   An understanding spirit so take to heart
   The common work of Fate.