Ben Jonson - 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 j**ell'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 a**ault 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 a**ume 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, co*katrice: 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 s**ing 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