University of Virginia Library

Scena Sexta.

Enter Ovid, Phœbianus, Philocles, Armelina, and Servants.
Phœbia.
My Father (on his death bed) did enjoyn me.
(For Educations sake) to stay so long.
You grace me (excellent Armelina) much
After so long a Triall to receive me.

Arme.
I nothing have worthy your Acceptation,
But my reciprocall Return of Love.

Phœbia.
I kiss your hand for so immense a bounty.
But why (my fairest) would you never honor
My many Letters with one single Answer?

Arme.
I durst not; fearing (among the Roman-Ladies)
You might have made a second Choice, and then
Have left me, blasted in my Reputation.

Phœbia.
I was too true, and you was too severe

Arme.
But wherefore came you so disguis'd; and why?
From me would you conceal your self?

Phœbia.
'Tis reasonable, that I should satisfy you.
Just upon my departure out of Italy,
My Curiosity lead me to Trasullus,
One of the chief Astrologers of these Times,
And happy in foretelling future fortunes:
I made Friends to him, and receiv'd these verses.
“Return disguis'd in womans Cloathes, and you
“The Murtherer of your Friend shall pay his due;
‘Obtain your Mistriss to become your Bride,
“And with her gain a world of wealth beside.

Ovid.
Bassanes his death, and fair Clorinas's wealth,
(You being her Heir) added to your great Portion,
Confirm for Trueth the Soothsayer's Prediction

Arme.
And I again must thank you for so bravely
Revenging on Bassanes, his foul Cruelties.
But why (my Phœbianus) would you not
Disclose your self to me?

Phœbia.
You are my Countri-woman; And I fear'd
So doing, I should have broken my Injunctions:
But now (divinest Lady) when shall I
Be made so happy by your gratious self,
As to receive you for my Bride?

Arme.
As soon
As I can give some stint unto my Tears;
After my Sisters Obsequies are past.

Philo.
Pray listen! What noise is that without? I think
I hear an horn, and 'tis some Post.

Enter A Post.
Phœbia.
From whence, my Friend, come you?

Post.
From Rome.

Phylo.
What news?

Post.
I've Letters for the famous Poet Ovid.

Ovid.
Deliver them. I'am that unfortunate man.
Ovid breaks open his Letters and reads.
I am undone for ever. No more hope,
For my Return must ever Flatter me.
My wife writes to me, she hath us'd the utmost
Of her Endeavour (assisted by the chiefest
Of both our Friends, and of most power with Cæsar.)
For my Repeal, or but (at least) Removall,
To a more temperate Clime; And that th'are both
Refus'd her; and she enjoyn'd perpetuall silence,
In my behalf. Besides, my Friend Græcinus,
(A Roman of high nore) hath writ me word
The Gracious Princess Julia, our great Empress
And my best Friend is, in Trimerus, dead.
One of these News were much too much to strike
My poor and Crazy body into my Grave:
But joyning both their Poysonous stings together;
I needs must to the world this Truth impart,
That Ovid dies here of a broken Heart.

Dies.
Phyl.
It was too sad a Truth his last breath did
Express: For he, alas! is dead indeed.

Arme.
Death is too prodigall of his Tragedies
In this small City. I must spare from my
Clorina's Fate one shower of tears to shed.
Upon his Grave.

Phyl.
Not only we, but all the Getick Nation
Were worse then barbarous, paid we not that duty
To Excellent Ovid's infelicious End.

Arme.
He was a most accomplish'd Gentleman,
A Person affable, and sweet condition'd;
And of the Roman Poets the most ingenious!

Phyl.
He was in Italie at Salmo born
A pleasant City within the Territory
Of the Peligui, and descended of
The Ancient Family of the Nasones;
Who had preserv'd the Dignity of Roman
Knights, from the first Original of that Order.
I'th Asiatick wars, he under Varro
Had eminent Command, and well discharg'd it:
Who now alas (after seaven years exilement)
Hopeless of a Repeal, hath breath'd his last.

Arme.
Take up his Noble Body, and bear it gently
To his own house; We all will wait on it thither.

Phœbia.
I'le have a stately Monument erected,
(Without our City walls, near the chief Gate)
To his fair Memory, to declare the Gratitude
Of Tomos to him; for the Honour It
Receiv'd by his so long abode among us:
Enclos'd in which (within a Mable-urne)
Curiously wrought, his Ashes shall for ever
Remain in peace; An endless Grace to Pontus!

Phil.
No Poet ever did more glory contribute
Unto the Latin Language, thru his Pen.
The Soul of Poetry feels a Convulsion
By his Decease He no superiour knew,
In that sweet Art, And was great Virgil Equal.
His works have an Eternity stamp'd on them,
Do far exceed the Consul Cicero's verses,
And all the Lines sacred Augustus ever.
Writ in a numerous strain; All the fine Poems,
The Darling of the People, the Facecious
And valiant Prince Cæsar Germanicus
Hath publish'd with Applause; And all such Things
Though writ by hands that were the spoyls of Kings.

Ovids Body being removed. Exeunt Omnes.