His.  Well, well, jest on, jest on.

Hor.  Thou base, unworthy groom!

Lup.  Ay, ay, ’tis good.

Hor. 
   Was this the treason, this the dangerous plot,
   Thy clamorous tongue so bellow’d through the court? 
   Hadst thou no other project to encrease
   Thy grace with Caesar, but this wolfish train,
   To prey upon the life of innocent mirth
   And harmless pleasures, bred of noble wit?  Away! 
   I loath thy presence; such as thou,
   They are the moths and scarabs of a state,
   The bane of empires, and the dregs of courts;
   Who, to endear themselves to an employment,
   Care not whose fame they blast, whose life they endanger;
   And, under a disguised and cobweb mask
   Of love unto their sovereign, vomit forth
   Their own prodigious malice; and pretending
   To be the props and columns of their safety,
   The guards unto his person and his peace. 
   Disturb it most, with their false, lapwing-cries.

Lup.  Good!  Caesar shall know of this, believe it!

Mec. 
   Caesar doth know it, wolf, and to his knowledge,
   He will, I hope, reward your base endeavours. 
   Princes that will but hear, or give access
   To such officious spies, can ne’er be safe: 
   They take in poison with an open ear,
   And, free from danger, become slaves to fear.
          
                                               [Exeunt.

Scene VII.-An open Space before the Palace. 
Enter Ovid.

Banish’d the court!  Let me be banish’d life,
Since the chief end of life is there concluded: 
Within the court is all the kingdom bounded,
And as her sacred sphere doth comprehend
Ten thousand times so much, as so much place
In any part of all the empire else;
So every body, moving in her sphere,
Contains ten thousand times as much in him,
As any other her choice orb excludes. 
As in a circle, a magician then
Is safe against the spirit he excites;
But, out of it, is subject to his rage,
And loseth all the virtue of his art: 
So I, exiled the circle of the court,
Lose all the good gifts that in it I ’joy’d. 
No virtue current is, but with her stamp,
And no vice vicious, blanch’d with her white hand. 
The court’s the abstract of all Rome’s desert,
And my dear Julia the abstract of the court. 
Methinks, now I come near her, I respire
Some air of that late comfort I received;
And while the evening, with her modest veil,
Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself
To steal abroad, I, like a heartless ghost,
Without the living body of my love,
Will here walk and attend her:  for I know
Not far from hence she is imprisoned,
And hopes, of her strict guardian, to bribe
So much admittance, as to speak to me,
And cheer my fainting spirits with her breath.

Julia. [appears above at her chamber window.] Ovid? my love?