should have rubbed your face with whites of eggs, you rascal; till
your brows had shone like our sooty brother's here, as sleek as a
horn-book: or have steept your lips in wine, till you made them so
plump, that Juno might have been jealous of them. Punk, kiss me,
punk.

Ovid. Here, daughter Venus, I drink to thee.

Chloe. Thank you, good 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?