Till Cupid’s fires be out, and his bow broken,
   Thy verses, neat Tibullus, shall be spoken. 
   Our Gallus shall be known from east to west;
   So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best. 
   The suffering plough-share or the flint may wear;
   But heavenly Poesy no death can fear. 
   Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,
   The banks o’er which gold-bearing Tagus flows. 
   Kneel hinds to trash:  me let bright Phoebus swell
   With cups full flowing from the Muses’ well. 
   Frost-fearing myrtle shall impale my head,
   And of sad lovers I be often read. 
   Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite! 
   For after death all men receive their right. 
   Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,
   My name shall live, and my best part aspire.

Enter Ovid senior, followed by Luscus,
Tucca, and Lupus.

Ovid se.  Your name shall live, indeed, sir! you say true:  but how infamously, how scorn’d and contemn’d in the eyes and ears of the best and gravest Romans, that you think not on; you never so much as dream of that.  Are these the fruits of all my travail and expenses?  Is this the scope and aim of thy studies?  Are these the hopeful courses, wherewith I have so long flattered my expectation from thee?  Verses!  Poetry!  Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader, become Ovid the play-maker!

Ovid ju.  No, sir.

Ovid se.  Yes, sir; I hear of a tragedy of yours coming forth for the common players there, call’d Medea.  By my household gods, if I come to the acting of it, I’ll add one tragic part more than is yet expected to it:  believe me, when I promise it.  What! shall I have my son a stager now? an enghle for players? a gull, a rook, a shot-clog, to make suppers, and be laugh’d at?  Publius, I will set thee on the funeral pile first.

Ovid ju.  Sir, I beseech you to have patience.

Lus.  Nay, this ’tis to have your ears damn’d up to good counsel.  I did augur all this to him beforehand, without poring into an ox’s paunch for the matter, and yet he would not be scrupulous.

Tuc.  How now, goodman slave! what, rowly-powly? all rivals, rascal?  Why, my master of worship, dost hear? are these thy best projects? is this thy designs and thy discipline, to suffer knaves to be competitors with commanders and gentlemen?  Are we parallels, rascal, are we parallels?

Ovid se.  Sirrah, go get my horses ready.  You’ll still be prating.

Tuc.  Do, you perpetual stinkard, do, go; talk to tapsters and ostlers, you slave; they are in your element, go; here be the emperor’s captains, you raggamuffin rascal, and not your comrades.
                                                     [Exit Luscus. 
Lup.  Indeed.  Marcus Ovid, these players are an idle generation, and do much harm in a state, corrupt young gentry very much, I know it; I have not been a tribune thus long and observed nothing:  besides, they will rob us, us, that are magistrates, of our respect, bring us upon their stages, and make us ridiculous to the plebeians; they will play you or me, the wisest men they can come by still, only to bring us in contempt with the vulgar, and make us cheap.