Alb. [re-entering.] Wife!

Chloe.  O, they do so commend me here, the courtiers! what’s the matter now?

Alb.  For the banquet, sweet wife.

Chloe.  Yes; and I must needs come to court, and be welcome, the princess says.
                                               [Exit with Albius. 
Gal.  Ovid and Tibullus, you may be bold to welcome your mistress here.

Ovid.  We find it so, sir.

Tib.  And thank Cornelius Gallus.

Ovid.  Nay, my sweet Sextus, in faith thou art not sociable.

Prop. 
   In faith I am not, Publius; nor I cannot. 
   Sick minds are like sick men that burn with fevers,
   Who when they drink, please but a present taste,
   And after bear a more impatient fit. 
   Pray let me leave you; I offend you all,
   And myself most.

Gal.  Stay, sweet Propertius.

Tib. 
   You yield too much unto 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.
                                              [Exil. 
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.

PIau.  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.