Doe you heare, you, Creature of diligence, and

businesse! what is the affaire, that you plucke for so,

vnder your cloake?

Nothing, but what I colour for, I assure you; and

may encounter with, I hope, if Lucke fauour me, the

Gamsters Goddesse.

You are a Votary of hers, it seemes by your lan-

guage. What went you vpon? may a man aske you?

Certainties, indeed Sir, and very good ones; the

presentation of a Masqne; you'll see't, anone.

Sir, this is my roome, and region too, the ban-

quetting house! And in matter of feast, and solem-

nitie, nothing is to be presented here, but with my

acquaintance, and allowance to it.

You are not his Maiesties Confectioner? Are you?

No, but one that has as good title to the roome,

his Master-Cooke. What are you, Sir?

The most vnprofitable of his seuants, I, Sir, the

Poet. A kind of a Christmas Ingine? one, that is vsed,

at least once a yeare, for a trifling instrument, of wit,

or so.

Were you euer a Cooke?

A Cooke? no surely.

Then you can be no good Poet: for a good Poet

differs nothing at all from a Master-Cooke. (^c) Eithers

Art is the wisedome of the Mind.

As how, Sir?

Expect. I am by my place, to know how to please

the palates of the ghests; so, you, are to know the pa-

late of the times: study the seuerall tasts, what euery

Nation, the Spaniard, the Dutch, the French, the Wal-

loun, the Neapolitan, the Brittan, the Sicilian can ex-

pect from you.

That were a heauy and hard taske, to satisfie Ex-

pectation, who is so seuere an exactresse of duties;

euer a tyrannous mistresse: and most times a pressing

enemy.

She is a powerfull great Lady, Sir, at all times,

and must be satisfied: So must her sister, Madam Cu-

riositie, who hath as daintie a palate as she.and these

will expect.

But, what if they expect more then they vnder-

stand?

That's all one, M^rPoet, you are bound to satisfie

them. For, there is a palate of the Vnderstanding, as

well as of the Senses. The Taste is taken with good

relishes, the Sight with faire obiects, the Hearing

with delicate sounds, the Smelling with pure sents,

the Feeling with soft and plump bodies, but the

Vnderstanding with all these: for all which you

must begin at the Kitchin. There, the Art of Poetry

was learnd, and found out, or no where: and the

same day, with the Art of Cookery.

I should haue giu'n it rather to the Cellar, if my

suffrage had bin askt.

O, you are for the (^d) Oracle of the Bottle, I see;

Hogshead Trismegistus: He is your Pegasus. Thence

flowes the spring of your Muses, from that hoofe.

Seduced Poet, I doe say to thee, —

A Boyler, Range, and Dresser were the fountaines

Of all the knowlege, in the Vniverse,

And that's the Kitchin. Where, a Master-Cook!

Thou do'st not know the man! nor canst thou know (him!

Til thou hast seru'd some yeers in that deep school,

That's both the Nource, and Mother of the Arts,

And hear'st him read, interpret, and demonstrate.

A Master-Cooke! why, he is the man of men,

For a Professor! He designes, he drawes,

He paints, he carues, he builds, he fortefies,

Makes Citadels of curious foule, and fish,

Some he dry-ditches, some motes roũd with broths;

Mounts marrow-bones; cuts fifty-angled custards;

Reares bulwarke pies; and, for his outer workes,

He raiseth ramparts of immortall crust;

And teacheth all the tacticks at one dinner:

What rankes, what files, to put his dishes in

The whole Art Militarie! The he knowes

The influence of the starres, vpon his meates;

And all their seasons, tempers, qualities,

And so, to fit his relishes, and sauces!

He, has Nature in a pot! boue all the Chemists,

Or bare-breechd brethren of the Rosie-Crosse!

He is an Architect, an Inginer,

A Souldier, a Physitian, a Philosopher,

A generall Mathematician!

It is granted.

And, that you may not doubt him for a Poet,

This Fury shewes, if there were nothing else.

And 'tis diuine!

Then, Brother Poet,

Brother.

I haue a suite.

What is it?

Your deuise.

As you came in vpon me, I was then

Offring the argument, and this it is.

Silence.

The mightie Neptune, mightie in his styles,

And large command of waters, and of Isles,

Not, as the Lord and Soueraigne of the Seas,

But, Chiefe in the art of riding, late did please

To send his Albion forth, the most his owne,

Vpon discouery, to themselues best knowne,

Through Celtiberia; and, to assist his course,

Gaue him his powerfull (^e) MANAGER of Horse,

With diuine Proteus, Father of disguise,

To waite vpon them with his counsels wise,

In all extremes. His great commands being done,

And he desirous to review his Sonne,

He doth dispatch a floting Ile, from hence,

Vnto the Hesperian shores, to waft him thence.

Where, what the arts were, vsde to make him stay,

And how the Syrens woo'd him, by the way,

What Monsters he encountred on the coast,

How neare our generall Ioy was to be lost,

Is not our subiect now: though all these make

The present gladnesse greater, for their sake.

But what the triumphs are, the feast, the sport,

And proud solemnities of Neptunes Court,

Now he is safe, and Fame's not heard in vaine,

But we behold our happie pledge againe.

That with him, loyall HIPPIVS is returnd,

Who for it, vnder so much envie, burnd

With his owne brightnes, till her steru'd snakes saw

What Neptune did impose, to him was law.

But, why not this, till now?

—It was not time,

To mixe this Musick with the vulgars chime.

Stay, till th'abortiue, and extemporall dinne

Of balladry, were vnderstood a sinne,

Minerua cry'd: that, what tumultuous verse,

Or prose could make, or steale, they might reherse,

And euery Songster had sung out his fit;

That all the Countrey, and the Citie-wit,

Of bels, and bonfires, and good cheere was spent,

And Neptunes Guard had drunk al that they meant;

That all the tales and stories now were old

Of the Sea-Monster Archy, or growne cold:

The Muses then might venter, vndeterr'd,

For they loue, then, to sing, when they are heard.

I like it well, tis handsome: And I haue

Something wold fit this. How do you present 'hem?

In a fine Iland, say you?

Yes, a (^f) Delus:

Such, as when faire Latona fell in trauaile,

Great Neptune made emergent.

I conceiue you.

I would haue had your Ile brought floting in, now

In a braue broth, and of a sprightly greene,

Iust to the colour of the Sea; and then,

Some twentie Syrens, singing in the kettel,

With an Arion, mounted on the backe

Of a growne Conger, but in such a posture,

As, all the world should take him for a Dolphin:

O, 'twould ha' made such musick! Ha' you nothing,

But a bare Island?

Yes, we haue a tree too,

Which we do call the Tree of Harmonie,

And is the same with (^g) what we read, the Sunne

Brought forth in the Indian Musicana first,

And thus it growes. The goodly bole, being got

To certaine cubits height, from euery side

The boughs decline, which taking roote afresh,

Spring vp new boles, & those spring new, & newer,

Till the whole tree become a Porticus,

Or arched Arbour, able to receiue

A numerous troupe, such as our Albion,

And the Companions of his iourney are.

And this they sit in

Your prime Masquers?

Yes.

But where's your Antimasque now, all this while?

I hearken after them.

Faith, we haue none.

None?

None, I assure you, neither do I think them

A worthy part of presentation,

Being things so heterogene, to all deuise,

Meere By-works, and at best Out-landish nothings.

O, you are all the heauen awrie! Sir.

For blood of Poetry, running in your veines,

Make not your selfe so ignorantly simple.

Bycause Sir, you shall see I am a Poet,

No lesse then Cooke, and that I find you want

A speciall service here, an Antimasque,

Ile fit you with a dish out of the Kitchin,

Such, as I thinke, will take the present palates,

A metaphoricall dish! And, do but mark,

How a good wit may iump with you. Are you rea-dy, Child?

(Had there bin Maske, or no Maske, I had made it.)

Child of the boyling house.

Here, Father.

Bring forth the pot. It is an Olla Podrida,

But I haue persons, to present the meates.

Persons!

Such as doe relish nothing, but di stato,

(But in another fashion, then you dreame of)

Know all things the wrong way, talk of the affaires,

The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries

That are afoot, and, frõ what hands they haue 'hem

(The master of the Elephant, or the Camels)

What correspondences are held; the Posts

That go, & come, and know, almost, their minutes,

All but their businesse: Therein, they are fishes.

But ha' their garlick, as the Prouerb sayes,

They are our Quest of enquiry, after newes.

Together with their learned Authors?

Yes Sir,

And of the Epicœne gender, Hees, and Shees:

Amphibion Archy is the chiefe.

Good boy!

The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchin.

Haue you put him, into the pot, for Garlick?

One in his coate, shall stinke as strong as he, Sir,

And his friend Giblets with him.

They are two,

That giue a part of the seasoning.

I conceiue

The way of your Gally-mawfrey.

You will like it,

When they come powring out of the pot together.

O, if the pot had been big enough!

What then, Child?

I had put in the Elephant, and one Camell,

at least, for Biefe.

But, whom ha' you for Partrich?

A brace of Dwarfes, and delicate plump birds!

And whom for Mutton, and Kid?

A fine lac'd Mutton,

Or two; and either has her frisking Husband:

That reades her the Corrantos, euery weeke.

Graue Mr Ambler, Newes-master of Poules,

Supplies your Capon; and growne Captaine Buz

(His Emissary) vnderwrites for Turky,

A Gentleman of the Forrest presents Phesant,

And a plump Poultrers wife, in Graces street,

Playes Hen with egges i'the belly, or a Cony,

Choose which you will.

But, where's the Bacon, Thom?

Hogrel the Butcher, and the Sow his wife,

Are both there.

It is well, go, dish 'hem out.

Are they well boyld?

Podrida!

What's that? rotten?

O, that they must be. There's one maine ingredient

We haue forgot, the Artichoke.

No Sir.

I haue a Fruicterer, with a cold red nose,

Like a blue fig, performes it.

The fruit lookes so.

Good child, go poure 'hē out, shew their concoctiō.

They must be rottē boyld, the broth's the best on't,

And that's the Dance. The stage here is the Char-ger.

And Brother Poet, though the serious part

Be yours, yet, envie not the Cookehis art. his art.

Not I. Nam lusus ipse Triumphus amat.

Well, now, expect the Scene it selfe; it opens!

Looke forth, the (^h) Shephard of the seas,

And (ⁱ) of the Ports, that keep'st the keyes,

And to your Neptune tell,

His ALBION, Prince of all his Isles,

For whome the sea, and land so smiles,

Is home returned well.

And be it thought no common Cause,

That, to it, so much wonder drawes,

And all the Hea'uens consent,

With HARMONY, to tune their notes,

In answer to the publique votes

That, for it, vp were sent.

It was no envious Stepdames rage,

Or Tyrans malice of the age,

That did employ him forth.

But such a Wisdome, that would proue,

By sending him, their hearts, and loue

That else might feare his worth.

I! now the Pompe of Neptunes triumph shines!

And all the glories of his great designes

Are read, reflected, in his sonnes returne!

These are the true fires,

Are made of ioyes!

Of longings!

Of desires!

Of hopes!

Of feares!

Not intermitted blocks.

But pure affections, and from odorous stocks!

Tis incense all, that flames!

And these materials scarce haue names!

My King lookes higher, as he scornd the warres

Of winds, and with his trident touchd the starrs.

There is no wrinkle, in his brow, or frowne,

But, as his cares he would in nectar drowne,

And all the (^l) siluer-footed Nymphs were drest,

To wayte vpon him, to the Oceans feast.

Or, here in rowes vpon the bankes were set,

And had their seuerall hayres made into net

To catch the youths in, as they come on shore.

How! Galatea sighing! O, no more.

Banish your feares.

And Doris dry your teares.

Albion is come:

And (^m) Haliclyon, too,

That kept his side, as he was charg'd to do,

With wonder.

—And the Syrens haue him not.

Though they no practise, nor no arts forgot

That might haue wonne him, or by charme, or song.

Or laying forth their tresses all along

Vpon the glassie waues;

Then diuing:

Then,

Vp with their heads, as they were mad of men.

And there, the highest-going billowes crownē,

Vntill some lusty Sea-god pull'd them downe.

See! He is here!

Great Master of the mayne,

Receiue thy deare, and precious pawne againe.

SARON, PORTVNVS, PROTEVS bring him thus,

Safe, as thy Subiects wishes gaue him vs:

And of thy glorious Triumph let it be

No lesse a part, that thou their loues doest see,

Then, that his sacred hea'ds return'd to thee.

Spring all the Graces of the age,

And all the Loues of time;

Bring all the pleasures of the stage,

And relishes of rime:

Adde all the softnesses of Courts

The lockes, the laughters, and the sports.

And mingle all their sweets, and salts,

That none may say, the Triumph halts.

Behold the Palace of Oceanus!

Hayle Reverend structure! Boast no more to vs

Thy being able, all the Gods to feast;

We haue seene enough: our Albion was thy guest.

Now turne and view the wonders of the deepe,

Where Proteus heards, and Neptunes Orkes do keep,

Where all is plough'd, yet still the pasture greene

The wayes are found, and yet no path is seene,

Come noble Nymphs, and doe not hide

The ioyes, for which you so prouide:

If not to mingle with the men,

What doe you here? Go home agen.

Your dressings doe confesse

By what we see so curious parts

Of Pallas, and Arachnes arts,

That you could meane no lesse.

Why doe you were the Silkewormes toyles;

Or glory in the shellfish spoiles?

Or striue to shew the graines of ore

That you haue gatherd on the shore,

Whereof to make a stocke

To graft the greener Emerald on

Or any better-waterd stone?

Or Ruby of the rocke?

Why do you smell of Amber gris,

Of which was formed Neptunes Neice,

The Queene of Loue; vnlesse you can

Like Sea-borne Venus loue a man?

Try, put your selues vnto't.

Your lookes, your smiles, and thoughts that meete,

Ambrosian hands, and siluer feete,

doe promise you will do't.

'Tis time, your eyes should be refresh'd at length

Which something new, a part of Neptunes strength

See, yond, his fleete, ready to goe, or come,

Or fetch the riches of the Ocean home,

So to secure him both in peace, and warres,

Till not one ship alone, but all be starres.

I haue another seruice for you, Brother Poet, a dish

of pickled Saylors, fine salt Sea-boyes, shall relish

like Anchoues, or Caueare, to draw downe a cup of

nectar, in the skirts of a night.

Come away boyes, the Towne is ours, hay for Nep-

tune, and our young Master.

He knowes the Compasse and the Card,

While Castor sits on the maine yard,

And Pollux too, to helpe your hayles;

And bright Leucothoe, fils your sayles:

Arion sings, the Dolphins swim,

And, all the way, to gaze on him.

Although we wish the Triumph still might last

For such a Prince, and his discouery past,

Yet now, great Lord of waters, and of Isles,

Giue Proteus leaue to turne vnto his wiles:

And, whilst young Albion doth thy labours ease,

Dispatch Portunus to thy ports,

And Saron to thy Seas:

To meete old Nereus, with his fiftie girles,

From aged Indus laden home with pearls,

And orient gummes, to burne vnto thy name.

And may thy Subiects hearts be all on flame:

Whilst thou dost keepe the earth in firme estate,

And, 'mongst the winds, dost suffer no debate.

But both at sea, and land, our powers increase,

With health, and all the golden gifts of peace.