Ovid.  Here, heavenly Julia.

Jul. 
   Here! and not here!  O, how that word doth play
   With both our fortunes, differing, like ourselves,
   Both one; and yet divided, as opposed! 
   I high, thou low:  O, this our plight 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 myself 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 ’tis now;
   Death cannot raze the affects 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 dissolv’d 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 breathe my soul into thy breast.

Ovid. 
   O stay, my love; the hopes thou dost conceive
   Of thy quick death, and of thy future life,
   Are not authentical.  Thou choosest death,
   So thou might’st ’joy thy love in the other life: 
   But know, my princely love, when thou art dead,
   Thou only must survive in perfect soul;
   And in the soul are no affections. 
   We pour out our affections with our blood,
   And, with our blood’s affections, fade our loves. 
   No life hath love in such sweet state as this;
   No essence is so dear to moody sense
   As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense. 
   Beauty, composed of blood and flesh, moves more,
   And is more plausible to blood and flesh,
   Than spiritual beauty can be to the spirit. 
   Such apprehension as we have in dreams,
   When, sleep, the bond of senses, locks them up,
   Such shall we have, when death destroys them quite. 
   If love be then thy object, change not life;
   Live high and happy still:  I still below,
   Close with my fortunes, in thy height shall joy.

Jul. 
   Ay me, that virtue, whose brave eagle’s wings,
   With every stroke blow stairs in burning heaven,
   Should, like a swallow, preying towards storms,
   Fly close to earth, and with an 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 prey, like swallows, on invisible food,
   Pursuing flies, or nothing:  and thus love. 
   And every worldly fancy, is transposed
   By worldly tyranny to what plight