Gal.  A good smart-tongued goddess, a right Juno!

Ovid.  Juno, we will cudgel thee, Juno:  we told thee so yesterday, when thou wert jealous of us for Thetis.

Pyr.  Nay, to-day she had me in inquisition too.

Tuc.  Well said, my fine Phrygian fry; inform, inform.  Give me some wine, king of heralds, I may drink to my cockatrice.

Ovid.  No more, Ganymede; we will cudgel thee, Juno; by Styx we will.

Jul.  Ay, ’tis well; gods may grow impudent in iniquity, and they must not be told of it

Ovid.  Yea, we will knock our chin against our breast, and shake thee out of Olympus into an oyster-boat, for thy scolding.

Jul.  Your nose is not long enough to do it, Jupiter, if all thy strumpets thou hast among the stars took thy part.  And there is never a star in thy forehead but shall be a horn, if thou persist to abuse me.

Cris.  A good jest, i’faith.

Ovid.  We tell thee thou angerest us, cotquean; and we will thunder thee in pieces for thy cotqueanity.

Cris.  Another good jest.

Alb.  O, my hammers and my Cyclops!  This boy fills not wine enough to make us kind enough to one another.

Tuc.  Nor thou hast not collied thy face enough, stinkard.

Alb.  I’ll ply the table with nectar, and make them friends.

Her.  Heaven is like to have but a lame skinker, then.

Alb.  Wine and good livers make true lovers:  I’ll sentence them together.  Here, father, here, mother, for shame, drink yourselves drunk, and forget this dissension; you two should cling together before our faces, and give us example of unity.

Gal O, excellently spoken, Vulcan, on the sudden!

Tib.  Jupiter may do well to prefer his tongue to some office for his eloquence.  Tuc.  His tongue shall be gentleman-usher to his wit, and still go before it.

Alb.  An excellent fit office!

Cris.  Ay, and an excellent good jest besides.

Her.  What, have you hired Mercury to cry your jests you make?

Ovid.  Momus, you are envious.

Tuc.  Why, ay, you whoreson blockhead, ’tis your only block of wit in fashion now-a-days, to applaud other folks’ jests.

Her.  True; with those that are not artificers themselves.  Vulcan, you nod, and the mirth of the jest droops.

Pyr.  He has filled nectar so long, till his brain swims in it.

Gal.  What, do we nod, fellow-gods!  Sound music, and let us startle our spirits with a song.

Tuc.  Do, Apollo, thou art a good musician.

Gal.  What says Jupiter?

Ovid.  Ha! ha!

Gal.  A song.

Ovid.  Why, do, do, sing.

Pla.  Bacchus, what say you?

Tib.  Ceres?

Pla.  But, to this song?

Tib.  Sing, for my part.

Jul.  Your belly weighs down your head, Bacchus; here’s a song toward.

Tib.  Begin, Vulcan.