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