Alb.  What else, what else?

Tuc.  Say, Jupiter

Ovid.  Mercury—–­

Cris.  Ay, say, say.
          
                                        [Music
Alb.  Wake! our mirth begins to die;
                        Quicken it with tunes and wine. 
                      Raise your notes; you’re out; fie, fie! 
                        This drowsiness is an ill sign. 
                        We banish him the quire of gods,
                           That droops agen: 
                           Then all are men,
                      For here’s not one but nods.

Ovid.  I like not this sudden and general heaviness amongst
our godheads; ’tis somewhat ominous.  Apollo, command us
louder music, and let Mercury and Momus contend to please
and revive our senses.
          
                                         [Music
Herm.  Then, in a free and lofty strain. 
                         Our broken tunes we thus repair;
Cris.  And we answer them again,
                         Running division on the panting air;
Ambo.  To celebrate this, feast of sense,
                           As free from scandal as offence. 
Herm.  Here is beauty for the eye,
Cris.  For the ear sweet melody. 
Herm.  Ambrosiac odours, for the smell,
Cris.  Delicious nectar, for the taste;
Ambo.  For the touch, a lady’s waist;
                      Which doth all the rest excel.

Ovid.  Ay, this has waked us.  Mercury, our herald; go from ourself, the great god Jupiter, to the great emperor Augustus Caesar, and command him from us, of whose bounty he hath received the sirname of Augustus, that, for a thank-offering to our beneficence, he presently sacrifice, as a dish to this banquet, his beautiful and wanton daughter Julia:  she’s a curst quean, tell him, and plays the scold behind his back; therefore let her be sacrificed.  Command him this, Mercury, in our high name of Jupiter Altitonans.

Jul.  Stay, feather-footed Mercury, and tell Augustus, from us, the
great Juno Saturnia; if he think it hard to do as Jupiter hath
commanded him, and sacrifice his daughter, that he had better do
so ten times, than suffer her to love the well-nosed poet, Ovid;
whom he shall do well to whip or cause to be whipped, about the
capitol, for soothing her in her follies.
                 [ Enter Augustus Caesar, Mecaenas, Horace, Lupus,
                          Histrio, Minus, and Lictors. 
Caes. 
   What sight is this?  Mecaenas!  Horace! say? 
   Have we our senses? do we hear and see? 
   Or are these but imaginary objects
   Drawn by our phantasy!  Why speak you not? 
   Let us do sacrifice.  Are they