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.