Chloe.  Are we invited to court, sir?

Tib.  You are, lady, by the great princess Julia; who longs to greet you with any favours that may worthily make you an often courtier.

Chloe.  In sincerity, I thank her, sir.  You have a coach, have you not?

Tib.  The princess hath sent her own, lady.

Chloe.  O Venus! that’s well:  I do long to ride in a coach most vehemently.

Cyth.  But, sweet Gallus, pray you resolve me why you give that heavenly praise to this earthly banquet?

Gal.  Because, Cytheris, it must be celebrated by the heavenly powers:  all the gods and goddesses will be there; to two of which you two must be exalted.

Chloe.  A pretty fiction, in truth.

Cyth.  A fiction, indeed, Chloe, and fit for the fit of a poet.

Gal.  Why, Cytheris, may not poets (from whose divine spirits all the honours of the gods have been deduced) entreat so much honour of the gods, to have their divine presence at a poetical banquet?

Cyth.  Suppose that no fiction; yet, where are your habilities to make us two goddesses at your feast?

Gal.  Who knows not, Cytheris, that the sacred breath of a true poet can blow any virtuous humanity up to deity?

Tib.  To tell you the female truth, which is the simple truth, ladies; and to shew that poets, in spite of the world, are able to deify themselves; at this banquet, to which you are invited, we intend to assume the figures of the gods; and to give our several loves the forms of goddesses.  Ovid will be Jupiter; the princess Julia, Juno; Gallus here, Apollo; you, Cytheris, Pallas; I will be Bacchus; and my love Plautia, Ceres:  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.