Cris.  Make your approach, sweet captain.

Tib.  What means this, Horace?

Hor.  I am surprised again; farewell.

Gal.  Stay, Horace.
          
                                             [Exit hastily. 
Tib ’Slight, I hold my life
   This same is he met him in Holy-street.

Hor.  What, and be tired on by yond’ vulture!  No:  Phoebus defend me!

Gal.  Troth, ’tis like enough.—­This act of Propertius relisheth very strange with me.

Tuc.  By thy leave, my neat scoundrel:  what, is this the mad boy you talk’d on?

Cris.  Ay, this is master Albius, captain.

Tuc.  Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad thou art the
Hector of citizens:  What sayest thou? are we welcome to thee, noble
Neoptolemus?

Alb.  Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the Capitol—­

Tuc.  No more, we conceive thee.  Which of these is thy wedlock, Menelaus? thy Helen, thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour, mad boy.

Cris.  She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.

Alb.  For fault of a better, sir.

Tuc.  A better! profane rascal:  I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle, was’t thou?

Alb.  No harm, captain.

Tuc.  She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene:  come hither, Penelope; what’s thy name, Iris?

Chloe.  My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman.

Tuc.  Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and a lip; thou hast an emperor’s nose:  kiss me again:  ’tis a virtuous punk; so!  Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when they suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard:  thou hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were, punk, they were.

Chloe.  That’s sure, sir:  let me crave your name, I pray you, sir.

Tuc.  I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the noble
Roman, punk:  a gentleman, and a commander, punk.
                                                 [Walks aside. 
Chloe.  In good time:  a gentleman, and a commander! that’s as good
as a poet, methinks.

Cris.  A pretty instrument!  It’s my cousin Cytheris’ viol this, is it not?

Cyth.  Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and hand to grace it, as yours is.

Cris.  Alas, cousin, you are merrily inspired.

Cyth.  Pray you play, if you love me.

Cris.  Yes, cousin; you know I do not hate you.

Tib.  A most subtile wench! how she hath baited him with a viol yonder, for a song!

Cris.  Cousin, ’pray you call mistress Chloe! she shall hear an essay of my poetry.

Tuc.  I’ll call her.—­Come hither, cockatrice:  here’s one will set thee up, my sweet punk, set thee up.

Chloe.  Are you a poet so soon, sir?

CRlSPINUS plays and sings.