The Poetaster Act 4. Scene 1 lyrics

A Room in ALBIUS'S House.
enter CHLOE, CYTHERIS, and Attendants.

Chloe.
But, sweet lady, say; am I well enough attired for the
court, in sadness?

Cyth.
Well enough! excellent well, sweet mistress Chloe; this
strait-bodied city attire, I can tell you, will stir a courtier's
blood, more than the finest loose sacks the ladies use to be put
in; and then you are as well jewell'd as any of them; your ruff
and linen about you is much more pure than theirs; and for your
beauty, I can tell you, there's many of them would defy the
painter, if they could change with you. Marry, the worst is, you
must look to be envied, and endure a few court-frumps for it.

Chloe.
O Jove, madam, I shall buy them too cheap!—Give me my muff,
and my dog there.-And will the ladies be any thing familiar with
me, think you?

Cyth.
O Juno! why you shall see them flock about you with their
puff-wings, and ask you where you bought your lawn, and what you paid for it? who starches you? and entreat you to help 'em to some pure laundresses out of the city.
Chloe.
O Cupid!—Give me my fan, and my mask too.—And will the
lords, and the poets there, use one well too, lady?

Cyth.
Doubt not of that; you shall have kisses from them, go
pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, upon your lips, as thick as stones out
of slings at the assault of a city. And then your ears will be so
furr'd with the breath of their compliments, that you cannot catch
cold of your head, if you would, in three winters after.

Chloe.
Thank you, sweet lady. O heaven! and how must one behave
herself amongst 'em? You know all.

Cyth.
Faith, impudently enough, mistress Chloe, and well enough.
Carry not too much under thought betwixt yourself and them; nor
your city-mannerly word, forsooth, use it not too often in any
case; but plain, Ay, madam, and no, madam: nor never say, your
lordship, nor your honour; but, you, and you, my lord, and my lady:
the other they count too simple and minsitive. And though they
desire to kiss heaven with their titles, yet they will count them
fools that give them too humbly.

Chloe.
O intolerable, Jupiter! by my troth, lady, I would not for a
world but you had lain in my house; and, i'faith, you shall not pay
a farthing for your board, nor your chambers.
Cyth.
O, sweet mistress Chloe! Chloe. I'faith you shall not, lady;
nay, good lady, do not offer it.
[Enter GALLUS and TIBULLUS.

Gal.
Come, where be these ladies? By your leave, bright stars, this
gentleman and I are come to man you to court; where your late kind entertainment is now to be requited with a heavenly banquet.

Cyth.
A heavenly banquet; Gallus!

Gal.
No less, my dear Cytheris.

Tib.
That were not strange, lady, if the epithet were only given
for the company invited thither; your self, and this fair
gentle-woman.

Chloe.
Are we invited to court, sir?

Tib.
You are, lady, by the great princess Julia; who longs to greet
you with any favours that may worthily make you an often courtier.
Chloe.
In sincerity, I thank her, sir. You have a coach, have you
not?

Tib.
The princess hath sent her own, lady.

Chloe.
O Venus! that's well: I do long to ride in a coach most
vehemently.

Cyth.
But, sweet Gallus, pray you resolve me why you give that
heavenly praise to this earthly banquet?

Gal.
Because, Cytheris, it must be celebrated by the heavenly
powers: all the gods and goddesses will be there; to two of which
you two must be exalted.

Chloe.
A pretty fiction, in truth.

Cyth.
A fiction, indeed, Chloe, and fit for the fit of a poet.

Gal.
Why, Cytheris, may not poets (from whose divine spirits all
the honours of the gods have been deduced) entreat so much honour of the gods, to have their divine presence at a poetical banquet?

Cyth.
Suppose that no fiction; yet, where are your habilities to
make us two goddesses at your feast?

Gal.
Who knows not, Cytheris, that the sacred breath of a true poet
can blow any virtuous humanity up to deity?

Tib.
To tell you the female truth, which is the simple truth,
ladies; and to shew that poets, in spite of the world, are able to
deify themselves; at this banquet, to which you are invited, we
intend to assume the figures of the gods; and to give our several
loves the forms of goddesses. Ovid will be Jupiter; the princess
Julia, Juno; Gallus here, Apollo; you, Cytheris, Pallas; I will be
Bacchus; and my love Plautia, Ceres: and to install you and your
husband, fair Chloe, in honours equal with ours, you shall be a
goddess, and your husband a god.

Chloe.
A god!—O my gods!

Tib.
A god, but a lame god, lady; for he shall be Vulcan, and you
Venus: and this will make our banquet no less than heavenly.

Chloe.
In sincerity, it will be sugared. Good Jove, what a pretty
foolish thing it is to be a poet! but, hark you, sweet Cytheris,
could they not possibly leave out my husband? methinks a body's
husband does not so well at court; a body's friend, or so—but,
husband! 'tis like your clog to your marmoset, for all the world,
and the heavens.

Cyth.
Tut, never fear, Chloe! your husband will be left without in
the lobby, or the great chamber, when you shall be put in, i'the
closet, by this lord, and by that lady.

Chloe.
Nay, then I am certified; he shall go.
[Enter HORACE.
Gal.
Horace! welcome.

Hor.
Gentlemen, hear you the news?

Tib.
What news, my Quintus!

Hor.
Our melancholic friend, Propertius,
Hath closed himself up in his Cynthia's tomb;
And will by no entreaties be drawn thence.

[Enter Albius, introducing CRISPINUS and DEMETRIUS,
followed by Tucca.

Alb.
Nay, good Master Crispinus, pray you bring near the gentleman.
[Going

Hor.
Crispinus! Hide me, good Gallus; Tibullus, shelter me.

Cris.
Make your approach, sweet captain.

Tib.
What means this, Horace?

Hor.
I am surprised again; farewell.

Gal.
Stay, Horace.

[Exit hastily.

Tib 'Slight, I hold my life
This same is he met him in Holy-street.

Hor.
What, and be tired on by yond' vulture! No: Phoebus defend me!

Gal.
Troth, 'tis like enough.—This act of Propertius relisheth
very strange with me.

Tuc. By thy leave, my neat scoundrel: what, is this the mad boy you
talk'd on?

Cris.
Ay, this is master Albius, captain.

Tuc.
Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad thou art the
Hector of citizens: What sayest thou? are we welcome to thee, noble Neoptolemus?

Alb.
Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the Capitol—

Tuc.
No more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy wedlock,
Menelaus? thy Helen, thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour, mad
boy.

Cris.
She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.

Alb.
For fault of a better, sir.

Tuc.
A better! profane rascal: I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle,
was't thou?

Alb.
No harm, captain.

Tuc.
She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: come hither, Penelope;
what's thy name, Iris?

Chloe.
My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman.

Tuc.
Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and a
lip; thou hast an emperor's nose: kiss me again: 'tis a virtuous
punk; so! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when they
suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thou
hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were,
punk, they were.

Chloe.
That's sure, sir: let me crave your name, I pray you, sir.

Tuc.
I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the noble
Roman, punk: a gentleman, and a commander, punk.

[Walks aside.

Chloe.
In good time: a gentleman, and a commander! that's as good
as a poet, methinks.

Cris.
A pretty instrument! It's my cousin Cytheris' viol this,
is it not?

Cyth.
Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and hand to
grace it, as yours is.

Cris.
Alas, cousin, you are merrily inspired.

Cyth.
Pray you play, if you love me.

Cris.
Yes, cousin; you know I do not hate you.

Tib.
A most subtile wench! how she hath baited him with a viol
yonder, for a song!

Cris.
Cousin, 'pray you call mistress Chloe! she shall hear an
essay of my poetry.

Tuc.
I'll call her.—Come hither, c*ckatrice: here's one will set
thee up, my sweet punk, set thee up.

Chloe. Are you a poet so soon, sir?

CRlSPINUS plays and sings.

Love is blind, and a wanton;
In the whole world, there is scant one
——Such another:
No, not his mother.
He hath pluck'd her doves and sparrows,
To feather his sharp arrows,
And alone prevaileth,
While sick Venus waileth.
But if Cypris once recover
The wag; it shall behove her
To look better to him:
Or she will undo him.

Alb.
Wife, mum.

Alb.
O, most odoriferous music!

Tuc.
Aha, stinkard! Another Orpheus, you slave, another Orpheus! an
Arion riding on the back of a dolphin, rascal!

Gal.
Have you a copy of this ditty, sir?

Cris.
Master Albius has.

Alb.
Ay, but in truth they are my Wife's verses; I must not shew
them.

Tuc.
Shew them, bankrupt, shew them; they have salt in them, and
will brook the air, stinkard.

Gal.
How! To his bright mistress Canidia!

Cris.
Ay, sir, that's but a borrowed name; as Ovid's Corinna, or
Propertius his Cynthia, or your Nemesis, or Delia, Tibullus.

Gal.
It's the name of Horace his witch, as I remember.

Tib.
Why, the ditty's all borrowed; 'tis Horace's: hang him,
plagiary!

Tut.
How! he borrow of Horace? he shall pawn himself to ten
brokers first. Do you hear, Poetasters? I know you to be men of
worship—He shall write with Horace, for a talent! and let Mecaenas and his whole college of critics take his part: thou shalt do't, young Phoebus; thou shalt, Phaeton, thou shalt.

Dem.
Alas, sir, Horace! he is a mere sponge; nothing but Humours
and observation; he goes up and down sucking from every society,
and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again. I know him, I.

Tuc.
Thou say'st true, my poor poetical fury, he will pen all he
knows. A sharp thorny-tooth, a satirical rascal, By him; he carries
hay in his horn: he will sooner lose his best friend, than his
least jest. What he once drops upon paper, against a man, lives
eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of every slave,
tankard-bearer, or waterman; not a bawd, or a boy that comes from the bake-house, but shall point at him: 'tis all dog, and scorpion; he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail. Fough! body of Jove! I'll have the slave whipt one of these days for his Satires and his Humours, by one cashier'd clerk or another.

Cris.
We'll undertake him, captain.

Dem.
Ay, and tickle him i'faith, for his arrogancy and his
impudence, in commending his own things; and for his translating, I can trace him, i'faith. O, he is the most open fellow living; I had
as lieve as a new suit I were at it.

Tuc.
Say no more then, but do it; 'tis the only way to get thee a
new suit; sting him, my little neufts; I'll give you instructions:
I'll be your intelligencer; we'll all join, and hang upon him like
so many horse-leeches, the players and all. We shall sup together,
soon; and then we'll conspire, i'faith.

Gal.
O that Horace had stayed still here!

Tib.
So would not I; for both these would have turn'd Pythagoreans
then.

Gal.
What, mute?

Tib.
Ay, as fishes, i'faith: come, ladies, shall we go?

Cyth.
We wait you, sir. But mistress Chloe asks, if you have not a
god to spare for this gentleman.

Gal.
Who, captain Tucca?

Cyth.
Ay, he.

Gal. Yes, if we can invite him along, he shall be Mars.

Chloe.
Has Mars any thing to do with Venus?

Tib.
O, most of all, lady.

Chloe.
Nay, then I pray let him be invited: And what shall
Crispinus be?

Tib.
Mercury, mistress Chloe.

Chloe.
Mercury! that's a poet, is it?

Gal.
No, lady, but somewhat inclining that way; he is a herald at
arms.

Chloe.
A herald at arms! good; and Mercury! pretty: he has to do
with Venus too?

Tib.
A little with her face, lady; or so.

Chloe.
'Tis very well; pray let us go, I long to be at it.

Cyth.
Gentlemen, shall we pray your companies along?

Cris.
You shall not only pray, but prevail, lady.—Come, sweet
captain.

Tuc.
Yes, I follow: but thou must not talk of this now, my little
bankrupt.

Alb.
Captain, look here, mum.

Dem.
I'll go write, sir.

[Exeunt