JULIA

Cytheris, she hath Favour, & behaviour, that commands as much of me; and sweet Chloë, know I do exceedingly love you, & that I will approve in any grace my father the Em perour may show you. Is this your husband? You must needs come to Court Lady i'faith, and there be sure your welcome shall be as great to us. Me thinks I love him, that he loves so truly. That shall not want: our self will be the first shall pro mice to pay him more then thanks, upon a favour so worthily vouchsafed. That we will Chloë; can he sing excellently? Good Sir, lets entreat you to use your voice. Nay Hermogenes, your merit hath long since been both known, and admired of us. 'Tis true: and well thought on, Cornelius Gallus. It's the common disease of all your Musicians, that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin, or end. Away with your Mattery Sentences, Momus; they are to graven, and wise, for this meeting. Wilt thou be ranging, Jupiter, before my face? Because it is thy wives Face, Jupiter. I will find fault with thee, King Cuckold-maker: what, shall the King of Gods turn the King of Good fellows, and have no Fellow in wickedness? This makes our Poets, that know our Profaneness, live as profane, as we: By my Godhead, Jupiter; I will join with all the other Gods, here; bind thee hand and foot; throw thee down into earth; and make a poor Poet of thee, if thou abuse me thus. I'ts well; Gods may grow impudent in Iniquity, and they must not be told of it. Your Nose is not long enough to do it, Jupiter; if all thy Strumpets, thou hast among the Stars took thy partly. And there is never a Star in thy Forehead, but shall be a Horn, if thou persist to abuse me, Ovid? my Love? Here? and not here? Oh, how that word does play With both our Fortune's, differing, Like our selves, Both one; and yet divided, as opposed? I High, thou Low: o, this our plighted of Place Doubly presents the two lets of our Love, Local and ceremonial Height, and Lowness: Both ways, I am too high; and thou, too low. Our Minds are even, yet: o, why should our Bodies, That are their slaves, be so without their rule? I'll cast my self down to thee; If I die, I'll ever live with thee: no height of Birth, Of Place, of Duty, or of cruel Power, Shall keep me from thee; should my Father lock This body up within a Tomb of Brass, Yet I'll be with thee: If the Forms, I hold Now in my Soul, be made one substance with it; That Soul immortal; and the same it's now: Death cannot raze th'affectes, she now retaineth: And then, may she be any where she will. The souls of Parents rule not Children's souls, When Death sets both in their dissolved estates: Then is no Child, nor Father: then Eternity Frees all, from any temporal respect. I come, my Ovid; take me in thine arms: And let me breath my soul into thy breast. Ay me, that Virtue, whose brave Eagles wings With every stroke, blow Stars, in burning Heaven; Should Like a Swallow (praying towards storms) Fly close to earth: and with and eager plume Pursue those Objects, which none else can see, But seem to all the world, the empty Air. Thus thou (poor Ovid ) and all virtuous men Must pray Like Swallows, on invisible food; Pursuing Flies, or nothing: and thus Love, And every worldly Fancy, is transposed, By worldly Tyranny, to what plighted it list. Oh, Father; since thou gavest me not my Mind, Strive not to rule it: Take, but what thou gavest To thy disposure, thy Affections Rule not in me; I must bear all my griefs, Let me use all my pleasures: "Virtuous Love Was never scandal to a Goddess state. But he's inflexible; and, my deer Love, Thy life may chance be shortened, by the length Of my unwilling speeches to depart. Farewell, sweet Life: though thou be yet exiled, Th'officious Court, enjoy me amply still: My Soul, in this my breath, enters thine Ears, And on this Turrets, Floor, will I lie dead, Till we may meet again; in this proud Height, I kneel beneath thee in my prostrate Love, And kiss the happy sands, that kiss thy feet. "Great Jove submits a Sceptre, to a Cell; "And Lovers, ere they partly, will meet in Hell. Ovid; my Love: alas, may we not stay A little longer (thinkest thou) undiscerned? I will be gone then; and not Heaven it self, Shall draw me back. I am content. Who shall go first, my Love? my passionate Eyes Will not endure to see thee turn from me. Then we must stay. We thank you good Albius: but when shall we see those excellent Jewels you are commended to have? Your belly weighs down your head, Bacehus: here's a song towards. Stay, Feather-footed Mercury; and tell Augustus, from us, the great Juno Saturnia; if he think it hard to do, as Ju piter hath commanded him, and Sacrifice his Daughter, that he had better to do so ten times, then 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.