father Jupiter.

Tuc. Why, mother Juno! gods and fiends! what, wilt thou suffer this
ocular temptation?

Tib. Mars is enraged, he looks big, and begins to stut for anger.

Her. Well played, captain Mars.

Tuc. Well said, minstrel Momus: I must put you in, must I? when
will you be in good fooling of yourself, fidler, never?

Her. O, 'tis our fashion to be silent, when there is a better fool
in place ever.

Tuc. Thank you, rascal.

Ovid. Fill to our daughter Venus, Ganymede, who fills her father
with affection.

Jul. Wilt thou be ranging, Jupiter, before my face?

Ovid. Why not, Juno? why should Jupiter stand in awe of thy face,
Juno?

Jul. Because it is thy wife's face, Jupiter.

Ovid. What, shall a husband be afraid of his wife's face? will she
paint it so horribly? we are a king, cotquean; and we will reign in
our pleasures; and we will cudgel thee to death, if thou find fault
with us.

Jul. I will find fault with thee, king cuckold-maker: What, shall
the king of gods turn the king of good-fellows, and have no fellow
in wickedness? This makes our poets, that know our profaneness,
live as profane as we: By my godhead, Jupiter, 1 will join with all
the other gods here, bind thee hand and foot, throw thee down into
the earth and make a poor poet of thee, if thou abuse me thus.

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 eno