SEN. 'Tis a strange boldness, that accompanies this fellow: come.

OVI. JUN. I'll give attendance on you to your horse, sir, please you –

OVI. SEN. No: keep your chamber, and fall to your studies; do so: the gods of Rome bless thee.

 

Exit with Lupus, Luscus

 

OVI. JUN.

And give me stomach to digest this law,

That should have followed sure, had I been he.

O sacred poesy, thou spirit of arts,

The soul of science, and the queen of souls,

What profane violence, almost sacrilege,

Hath here been offered thy divinities!

That thine own guiltless poverty should arm

Prodigious ignorance to wound thee thus!

For thence is all their force of argument

Drawn forth against thee; or from the abuse

Of thy great powers in adulterate brains:

When, would men learn but to distinguish spirits,

And set true difference 'twixt those jaded wits

That run a broken pace for common hire,

And the high raptures of a happy muse,

Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,

That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,

And beats at heaven gates with her bright hooves;

They would not then with such distorted faces,

And desperate censures stab at poesy,

They would admire bright knowledge, and their minds

Should ne'er descend on so unworthy objects

As gold, or titles: they would dread far more

To be thought ignorant than be known poor.

»The time was once when wit drowned wealth: but now,

Your only barbarism is to have wit, and want.

No matter now in virtue who excels,

He that hath coin hath all perfection else.«

 

Scene 3

TIB Without.

Ovid?

OVI.

Who's there? Come in.

 

Enter Tibullus

 

TIB.

Good morrow, lawyer.

OVI.

Good morrow, dear Tibullus, welcome: sit down.

TIB.

Not I. What: so hard at it? Let's see, what's here?

Nay, I will see it –

OVI.

Pray thee away –

TIB.

›If thrice in field, a man vanquish his foe,

'Tis after in his choice to serve, or no.‹

How now, Ovid! Law-cases in verse?

OVI.

In troth, I know not: they run from my pen

Unwittingly, if they be verse. What's the news abroad?

TIB.

Off with this gown, I come to have thee walk.

OVI.

No, good Tibullus, I'm not now in case,

Pray let me alone.

TIB.

How? Not in case!

'Slight thou'rt in too much case, by all this law.

OVI.

Troth, if I live, I will new dress the law,

In sprightly poesy's habiliments.

TIB.

The hell thou wilt. What, turn law into verse?

Thy father has schooled thee, I see. Here, read that same.

There's subject for you: and if I mistake not,

A supersedeas to your melancholy.

OVI. How! Subscribed Julia! Oh, my life, my heaven!

TIB. Is the mood changed?

OVI. Music of wit! Note for the harmonious spheres! Celestial accents, how you ravish me!

TIB. What is it, Ovid?

OVI. That I must meet my Julia, the Princess Julia.

TIB. Where?

OVI. Why, at –– heart, I have forgot: my passion so transports me.

TIB. I'll save your pains: it is at Albius' house, the jeweller's, where the fair Lycoris lies.

OVI. Who? Cytheris, Cornelius Gallus' love?

TIB. Aye, he'll be there too, and my Plautia.

OVI. And why not your Delia?

TIB. Yes, and your Corinna.

OVI.

True, but my sweet Tibullus, keep that secret:

I would not, for all Rome, it should be thought,

I veil bright Julia underneath that name:

Julia, the gem, and jewel of my soul,

That takes her honours from the golden sky,

As beauty doth all lustre, from her eye.

The air respires the pure Elysian sweets

In which she breathes: and from her looks descend

The glories of the summer. Heaven she is,

Praised in herself above all praise: and he

Which hears her speak would swear the tuneful orbs

Turned in his zenith only.

TIB.

Publius, thou'lt lose thyself.

OVI.

Oh, in no labyrinth can I safelier err

Than when I lose myself in praising her.

Hence Law, and welcome, Muses; though not rich,

Yet are you pleasing: let's be reconciled,

And now made one. Henceforth, I promise faith,

And all my serious hours to spend with you:

With you, whose music striketh on my heart,

And with bewitching tones steals forth my spirit,

In Julia's name; fair Julia: Julia's love

Shall be a law, and that sweet law I'll study,

The law and art of sacred Julia's love:

All other objects will but abjects prove.

TIB. Come, we shall have thee as passionate as Propertius, anon.

OVI. Oh, how does my Sextus?

TIB.