Howe'er that common spawn of ignorance,
Our fry of writers, may beslime his fame,
And give his action that adulterate name.
Such full-blown vanity he more doth loth,
Than base dejection; there's a mean 'twixt both,
Which with a constant firmness he pursues,
As one that knows the strength of his own Muse.
And this he hopes all free souls will allow:
Others that take it with a rugged brow,
Their moods he rather pities than envies:
His mind it is above their injuries.

ACT I

SCENE 1--Scene draws, and discovers OVID in his study.

Ovid.
Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,
My name shall live, and my best part aspire.
It shall go so.

[Enter Luscus, with a gown and cap.

LUSC. Young master, master Ovid, do you hear? Gods a'me! away with
your songs and sonnets and on with your gown and cap quickly: here,
here, your father will be a man of this room presently. Come, nay,
nay, nay, nay, be brief. These verses too, a poison on 'em! I
cannot abide them, they make me ready to cast, by the
banks of Helicon! Nay, look, what a rascally untoward thing this
poetry is; I could tear them now.

Ovid. Give me; how near is my father?

Lusc. Heart a'man: get a law book in your hand, I will not answer
you else. [Ovid puts on his cap and gown ]. Why so! now there's
some formality in you. By Jove, and three or four of the gods more,
I am right of mine old master's humour for that; this villainous
poetry will undo you, by the welkin.

Ovid. What, hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou swearest so
tragically and high?

Lusc. No, but I have boots on, sir, and so has your father too by
this time; for he call'd for them ere I came from the lodging.

Ovid. Why, was he no readier?

Lusc. O no; and there was the mad skeldering captain, with the
velvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes down: he that
presses every man he meets, with an oath to lend him money, and
cries, Thou must do't, old boy, as thou art a man, a man of
worship.

Ovid. Who, Pantilius Tucca?

Lus. Ay, he; and I met little master Lupus, the tribune, going
thither too.

Ovid. Nay, an he be under their arrest, I may with safety enough
read over my elegy before he come.

Lus. Gods a'me! what will you do? why, young master, you are not
Castalian mad, lunatic, frantic,