His Majesty being set, and the loud music ceasing. All that is discovered of a scene, are two erected pillars, dedicated to Neptune, with this inscription upon the one,

NEP. RED

On the other,

SEC. JOV.

The POET entering on the stage, to disperse the argument, is called to by the MASTER-COOK. Cook. Do you hear, you creature of diligence and business? what is the affair, that you pluck for so, under your cloke?

Poet. Nothing, but what I color for, I assure you; and may encounter with, I hope, if luck favor me, the gamesters' goddess.

Cook. You are a votary of hers, it seems, by your language. What went you upon, may a man ask you?

Poet. Certainties, indeed, sir, and very good ones; the representation of a masque; you'll see't anon.

Cook. Sir, this is my room, and region too, the Banquetting-house. And in matter of feast, the solemnity, nothing is to be presented here, but with my acquaintance and allowance to it.

Poet. You are not his majesty's confectioner, are you?

Cook. No, but one that has a good title to the room, his Master-cook. What are you, sir?

Poet. The most unprofitable of his servants, I, sir, the Poet. A kind of a Christmas ingine: one that is used at least once a year, for a trifling instrument of wit, or so.

Cook. Were you ever a cook?
Poet. A cook! no, surely.

Cook. Then you can be no good poet: for a good poet differs nothing at all from a mastercook. Either's art is the wisdom of the mind. Poet. As how, sir? Cook. Expect. I am by my place, to know now to please the palates of the guests; so you are to know the palates of the times; study the several tastes, what every nation, the Spaniard, the Dutch, the French, the Walloun, the Neapolitan, the Britain, the Sicilian, can expect

from you.

Poet. That were a heavy and hard task, to satisfy Expectation, who is so severe an exactress of duties; ever a tyrannous mistress, and most times a pressing enemy.

Cook. She is a powerful great lady, sir, at all times, and must be satisfied: so must her sister, madam Curiosity, who hath as dainty a palate as she; and these will expect.

Poet. But what if they expect more than they understand?

Cook. That's all one, master Poet, you are bound to satisfy them. For there is a palate of the understanding, as well as of the senses. The taste is taken with good relishes, the sight with fair objects, the hearing with delicate sounds, the smelling with pure scents, the feeling with soft and plump bodies, but the understanding with all these; for all which you must begin at the kitchen. There the art of poetry was learn'd, and found out, or nowhere; and the same day with the art of Cookery.

Poet. I should have given it rather to the cellar, if my suffrage had been ask'd.

Cook. O, you are for the oracle of the bottle, I see; hogshead Trismegistus; he is your Pegasus. Thence flows the spring of your muses, from that hoof.

Seduced poet, I do say to thee—
A boiler, range, and dresser were the fountains
Of all the knowledge in the universe,
And that's the kitchen. What! a master-cook!
Thou dost not know the man, nor canst thou
know him,

Till thou hast served some years in that deep school,

That's both the nurse and mother of the arts, And heard'st him read, interpret, and demon strate.

A master-cook! why, he's the man of men,
For a professor! he designs, he draws,
He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies,
Makes citadels of curious fowl and fish,
Some he dry-ditches, some motes round with
broths,
[tards;

Mounts marrow-bones; cuts fifty-angled cus-
Rears bulwark pies; and, for his outer works,
He raiseth ramparts of immortal crust:
And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner:

Poet. As you came in upon me, I was then Offering the argument, and this it is. Cook. Silence.

Poet. [reads.] The mighty Neptune, mighty in his styles,
And large command of waters, and of isles;
Not as the "lord and sovereign of the seas,"
But "chief in the art of riding," late did please,
To send his Albion forth, the most his own,
Upon discovery, to themselves best known,
Through Celtiberia; and, to assist his course,
Gave him his powerful Manager of Horse,
With divine Proteus, father of disguise,
To wait upon them with his counsels wise,
In all extremes. His great commands being done,
And he desirous to review his son,

He doth dispatch a floating isle, from hence,
Unto the Hesperian shores, to waft him thence
Where, what the arts were, us'd to make him stay,
And how the Syrens woo'd him by the way,
What monsters he encounter'd on the coast,
How near our general joy was to be lost,
In not our subject now; though all these make
The present gladness greater, for their sake.
But what the triumphs are, the feast, the sport,
And proud solemnities of Neptune's court,
Now he is safe, and Fame's not heard in vain,
But we behold our happy pledge again.
That with him, loyal Hippius is return'd,
Who for it, under so much envy, burn'd

With his own brightness, till her starv'd snakes saw
What Neptune did impose, to him was law.

Cook. But why not this, till now?

Poet.- It was not time,

To mix this music with the vulgar's chime.
Stay, till the abortive, and extemporal din
Of balladry, were understood a sin,

Minerva cried; that, what tumultuous verse,

Or prose could make, or steal, they might rehearse,
And every songster had sung out his fit;

That all the country, and the city wit,

Of bells and bonfires, and good cheer was spent,

And Neptune's guard had drunk all that they meant;

That all the tales and stories now were old

Of the sea-monster Archy, or grown cold: The Muses then might venture, undeterr'd, For they love, then, to sing, when they are heard. Cook. I like it well, 'tis handsome; and I have [them? Something would fit this. How do you present In a fine island, say you?

Poet. Yes, a Delos:

Some twenty Syrens, singing in the kettle, With an Arion mounted on the back

Of a grown conger, but in such a posture,
As all the world should take him for a dolphin:
O, 'twould have made such music! Have you
But a bare island?
[nothing

Poet. Yes, we have a tree too,
Which we do call the tree of Harmony,
And is the same with what we read the sun
Brought forth in the Indian Musicana first,
And thus it grows: The goodly bole being got
To certain cubits height, from every side
The boughs decline, which taking root afresh,
Spring up new boles, and these spring new, and
Till the whole tree become a porticus, [newer,
Or arched arbor, able to receive

A numerous troop, such as our Albion,
And the companions of his journey are:
And this they sit in.

Cook. Your prime Masquers?

Poet. Yes.

them

A worthy part of presentation,

Being things so heterogene to all device,
Mere by-works, and at best outlandish nothings.
Cook. O, you are all the heaven awry, sir!
For blood of poetry, running in your veins,
Make not yourself so ignorantly simple.
Because, sir, you shall see I am a poet,
No less than cook, and that I find you want
A special service here, an antimasque,
I'll fit you with a dish out of the kitchen,
Such, as I think, will take the present palates,
A metaphorical dish! and do but mark
How a good wit may jump with you. Are you
ready, child?
[made it.)
(Had there been masque, or no masque, I had
Child of the boiling-house!

Enter Boy.

Boy. Here, father.

Cook. Bring forth the pot. It is an olla podrida.

But I have persons to present the meats.
Poet. Persons!

Cook. Such as do relish nothing but di stuto, But in another fashion than you dream of, Know all things the wrong way, talk of the affairs,

The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries That are afoot, and from what hands they hare them,

The master of the elephant, or the camels :
What correspondencies are held; the posts
That go, and come, and know almost their
minutes,

All but their business: therein, they are fishes;
But have their garlic, as the proverb says.
They are our Quest of Enquiry after news.
Poet. Together with their learned authors?
Boy. Yes, sir.

And of the epicone gender, hees, and shees:
Amphibion Archy is the chief.

Cook. Good boy!

When they come pouring out of the pot toBoy. O, if the pot had been big enough! Cook. What then, child?

Boy. I had put in the elephant, and one camel, At least, for beef.

Cook. But whom have you for partridge? Boy. A brace of dwarfs, and delicate plump birds.

Cook. And whom for mutton, and kid?
Boy. A fine laced mutton,

Or two; and either has her frisking husband:
That reads her the Corranto, every week.
Grave master Ambler, news-master of Paul's,
Supplies your capon; and grown captain Buz,
His emissary, under-writes for turkey;
A gentleman of the Forest presents pheasant,
And a plump poulterer's wife, in Grace's street,
Plays hen with eggs in the belly, or a coney,
Choose which you will.

Cook. But where's the bacon, Tom?

Boy. Hogrel the butcher, and the sow his Are both there.

Cook. It is well; go dish them out. Are they well boil'd?

[wife,

Grand Cho. And be it thought no common cause,
That, to it, so much wonder draws,
And all the heavens consent,
With Harmony, to tune their notes,
In answer to the public votes,
That for it up were sent.

It was no envious step-dame's rage,
Or tyrant's malice of the age,

That did employ him forth:
But such a wisdom that would prove
By sending him their hearts, and love,
That else might fear his worth.

By this time, the island hath joined itself with the shore: and PROTEUS, PORTUNUS, and SARON come forth, and go up singing to the state, while the Masquers take time to land.

Pro. Por.

No intermitted blocks. Sar. But pure affections, and from odorous stocks! Cho. 'Tis incense all, that flames,

And these materials scarce have names! Pro. My king looks higher, as he scorn'd the wars Of winds, and with his trident touch'd the stars, There is no wrinkle in his brow, or frown, But as his cares he would in nectar drown, And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast. Por. Or, here in rows upon the banks were set, And had their several hairs made into net To catch the youths in, as they come on shore. Sar. How, Galatea sighing! O, no more, Banish your fears.

Boy. Podrida!

Por.

[on't,

They must be rotten boil'd; the broth's the best And that's the dance: the stage here is the charger.

And brother poet, though the serious part
Be yours, yet, envy not the cook his art.

Poet. Not I: nam lusus ipse Triumphus amat.

Here the ANTIMASQUE is danced by the persons described, coming out of the pot.

Poet. Well, now, expect the scene itself: it opens!

The island of DELOS is discovered, the MASQUERS sitting in the several sieges. The heavens opening, and APOLLO, with MERCURY, some of the Muses, and the goddess HARMONY, make the music: the while the island moves forward, PROTEUS sitting below, and APOLLO sings.

ALBION is come.

And, Doris, dry your tears

And Haliclyon too,

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

Sar. And the Syrens have him not.

Por. Though they no practice, nor no arts forgot,

Pro. That might have won him, or by charin, or song. Por. Or laying forth their tresses all along

Upon the glassy waves.

Por. Then diving.

Up with their heads, as they were mad of men.
Sar. And there the highest-going billows crown,
Until some lusty sea-god pull'd them down
Cho. See, he is here!

Pro. Great master of the main,

Receive thy dear, and precious pawn again.
Cho Saron, Portunus, Proteus bring him thus,
Safe, as thy subjects' wishes gave him us:
And of thy glorious triumph let it be

No less a part, that thou their loves dost see,
Than that his sacred head's return'd to thee.

This sung, the island goes back, whilst the Upper Chorus takes it from them, and the Masquers prepare for their figure.

Cho. Spring all the Graces of the age,

And all the Loves of time:
Bring all the pleasures of the stage,
And relishes of rhyme:

Add all the softnesses of courts,

The looks, the laughters, and the sports:

And mingle all their sweets and salts,

That none may say, the Triumph halts.

Here the MASQUERS dance their Entry.

Which done, the first prospective of a maritime palace, or the house of OCEANUS, is discovered, with loud music.

And the other above is no more seen.

Poet. Behold the palace of Oceanus ! Hail, reverend structure! boast no more to us Thy being able all the gods to feast;

761

See yond' his fleet, ready to go or come,
Or fetch the riches of the ocean home,
So to secure him, both in peace and wars,

Then follows the Main Dance.

[A shout within.

Poet. Now turn and view the wonders of the deep, Where Proteus' herds, and Neptune's ores do [keep, Where all is plough'd, yet still the pasture's

green,

The ways are found, and yet no paths are seen.
There PROTEUS, FORTUNUS, SARON, go up to the
Ladies with this SONG.

Pro. Come, noble nymphs, and do not hide
The joys for which you so provide.
Sar. If not to mingle with the men,

Por.

What do you here? go home agen.
Your dressings do confess,

By what we see so curious parts
Of Pallas' and Arachne's arts,

That you could mean no less.

Pro. Why do you wear the silk-worm's toils,
Or glory in the shell-fish' spoils,
Or strive to shew the grains of ore,
That you have gather'd on the shore,
Whereof to make a stock

Sar.

To graft the greener emerald on,
Or any better-water'd stone?

Ör ruby of the rock?

Pro. Why do you smell of amber-grise,

Sar.

Of which was formed Neptune's niece, The queen of Love; unless you can, Like sea-horn Venus, love a man?

Try, put yourselves unto't.

Cho. Your looks, your smiles, and thoughts that meet, Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,

Do promise you will do't.

The REVELS follow.

Cook. I've another service for you, brother Poet; a dish of pickled sailors, fine salt seaboys, shall relish like anchovies, or caveare, to draw down a cup of nectar, in the skirts of a night.

Sail. Come away, boys, the town is ours; hey for Neptune, and our young master !

While Castor sits on the main yard,
Poet. He knows the compass, and the card,
And Pollux too, to help your hales;
And bright Leucothoë fills your sails:
Arion sings, the dolphins swim,
And all the way, to gaze on him.

The ANTIMASQUE of Sailors.

Then the last Song to the whole Music, five lutes, three cornets, and ten voices.