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.