Ovid.  Give me; how near is my father?

Lusc.  Heart a’man:  get a law book in your hand, I will not answer you else. [Ovid puts on his cap and gown ].  Why so! now there’s some formality in you.  By Jove, and three or four of the gods more, I am right of mine old master’s humour for that; this villainous poetry will undo you, by the welkin.

Ovid.  What, hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou swearest so tragically and high?

Lusc.  No, but I have boots on, sir, and so has your father too by this time; for he call’d for them ere I came from the lodging.

Ovid.  Why, was he no readier?

Lusc.  O no; and there was the mad skeldering captain, with the velvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes down:  he that presses every man he meets, with an oath to lend him money, and cries, Thou must do’t, old boy, as thou art a man, a man of worship.

Ovid.  Who, Pantilius Tucca?

Lus.  Ay, he; and I met little master Lupus, the tribune, going thither too.

Ovid.  Nay, an he be under their arrest, I may with safety enough read over my elegy before he come.

Lus.  Gods a’me! what will you do? why, young master, you are not Castalian mad, lunatic, frantic, desperate, ha!

Ovid.  What ailest thou, Luscus?

Lus.  God be with you, sir; I’ll leave you to your poetical fancies, and furies.  I’ll not be guilty, I. [Exit.

Ovid. 
   Be not, good ignorance.  I’m glad th’art gone;
   For thus alone, our ear shall better judge
   The hasty errors of our morning muse.

   Envy, why twit’st thou me my time’s spent ill,
   And call’st my verse, fruits of an idle quill? 
   Or that, unlike the line from whence I sprung,
   War’s dusty honours I pursue not young? 
   Or that I study not the tedious laws,
   And prostitute my voice in every cause? 
   Thy scope is mortal; mine eternal fame,
   Which through the world shall ever chaunt my name. 
   Homer will live whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide,
   Or, to the sea, fleet Simois doth slide: 
   And so shall Hesiod too, while vines do bear,
   Or crooked sickles crop the ripen’d ear. 
   Callimachus, though in invention low,
   Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow. 
   No loss shall come to Sophocles’ proud vein;
   With sun and moon, Aratus shall remain. 
   While slaves be false, fathers hard, and bawds be whorish
   Whilst harlots flatter, shall Menander flourish. 
   Ennius, though rude, and Accius’s high-rear’d strain,
   A fresh applause in every age shall gain,
   Of Varro’s name, what ear shall not be told,
   Of Jason’s Argo and the fleece of gold? 
   Then shall Lucretius’ lofty numbers die,
   When earth and seas in fire and flame shall fry. 
   Tityrus, Tillage, AEnee shall be read,
   Whilst Rome of all the conquered world is head!