Gal.  O that Horace had stayed still here!

Tib.  So would not I; for both these would have turn’d Pythagoreans then.

Gal.  What, mute?

Tib.  Ay, as fishes, i’faith:  come, ladies, shall we go?

Cyth.  We wait you, sir.  But mistress Chloe asks, if you have not a god to spare for this gentleman.

Gal.  Who, captain Tucca?

Cyth.  Ay, he.

Gal.  Yes, if we can invite him along, he shall be Mars.

Chloe.  Has Mars any thing to do with Venus?

Tib.  O, most of all, lady.

Chloe.  Nay, then I pray let him be invited:  And what shall
Crispinus be?

Tib.  Mercury, mistress Chloe.

Chloe.  Mercury! that’s a poet, is it?

Gal.  No, lady, but somewhat inclining that way; he is a herald at arms.

Chloe.  A herald at arms! good; and Mercury! pretty:  he has to do with Venus too?

Tib.  A little with her face, lady; or so.

Chloe.  ’Tis very well; pray let us go, I long to be at it.

Cyth.  Gentlemen, shall we pray your companies along?

Cris.  You shall not only pray, but prevail, lady.—­Come, sweet captain.

Tuc.  Yes, I follow:  but thou must not talk of this now, my little bankrupt.

Alb.  Captain, look here, mum.

Dem.  I’ll go write, sir.
          
                                      [Exeunt.

                Sceneii.-A Room in Lupus’s House. 
                Enter Lupus, Histrio, and Lictors.

Tuc.  Do, do:  stay, there’s a drachm to purchase ginger-bread for thy muse.

Lup.  Come, let us talk here; here we may be private; shut the door, lictor.  You are a player, you say.

Hist.  Ay, an’t please your worship.

Lup.  Good; and how are you able to give this intelligence?

Hist.  Marry, sir, they directed a letter to me and my fellow—­ sharers.

Lup.  Speak lower, you are not now in your theatre, stager:—­my sword, knave.  They directed a letter to you, and your fellow-sharers:  forward.

Hist.  Yes, sir, to hire some of our properties; as a sceptre and crown for Jove; and a caduceus for Mercury; and a petasus—­
                                          [Reenter Lictor. 
Lup.  Caduceus and petasus! let me see your letter.  This is a conjuration:  a conspiracy, this.  Quickly, on with my buskins:  I’ll act a tragedy, i’faith.  Will nothing but our gods serve these poets to profane? dispatch!  Player, I thank thee.  The emperor shall take knowledge of thy good service. [A knocking within.] Who’s there now?  Look, knave. [Exit Lictor.] A crown and a sceptre! this is good rebellion, now.

Lic.  ’Tis your pothecary, sir, master Minos.