University of Virginia Library

Scene. II.

Lickfinger. Pecvnia. Statvte. Band. VVaxe. to them.
Lickfinger
is challeng'd by Madrigal of an argument.
I hope the fare was good.

Pec.
Yes, Lickfinger,
And we shall thanke you for't and reward you.

Mad.
Nay, I'll not lose my argument, Lickfinger;
Before these Gentlemen, I affirme,
The perfect, and true straine of poetry,
Is rather to be giuen the quicke Celler,
Then the fat Kitchin.

Lic.
Heretique, I see
Thou art for the vaine Oracle of the Botle.
The hogshead, Trismegistus, is thy Pegasus.
Thence flowes thy Muses spring, from that hard hoofe:
Seduced Poet, I doe say to thee,
A Boyler, Range, and Dresser were the Fountaines,
Of all the knowledge in the vniuerse.
And they' are the Kitchins, where the Master-Cooke—
(Thou dost not know the man, nor canst thou know him,
Till thou hast seru'd some yeeres in that deepe schoole,
That's both the Nurse and Mother of the Arts,
And hear'st him read, interpret, and demonstrate!)
A Master-Cooke! Why, he's the man o' men,
For a Professor! he designes, he drawes,
He paints, he carues, he builds, he fortifies,
Makes Citadels of curious fowle and fish,
Some he dri-dishes, some motes round with broths.
Mounts marrowbones, cuts fifty angled custards,
Reares bulwark pies, and for his outerworkes
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 Military. Then he knowes,
The influence of the Starres vpon his meats,
And all their seasons, tempers, qualities,
And so to fit his relishes, and sauces,
He has Nature in a pot, 'boue all the Chymists,
Or airy brethren of the Rosie-crosse.
He is an Architect, an Inginer,
A Souldiour, a Physician, a Philosopher,
A general Mathematician.

Mad.
It is granted.

Lic.
And that you may not doubt him, for a Poet—

Alm.
This fury shewes, if there were nothing else!
And 'tis diuine! I shall for euer hereafter,
Admire the wisedome of a Cooke!

Ban.
And we, Sir!

P. Iv.
O, how my Princesse drawes me, with her lookes,
Peny-boy is courting his Princesse all the while.
And hales me in, as eddies draw in boats,
Or strong Charybdis ships, that saile too neere
The shelues of Loue! The tydes of your two eyes!
Wind of your breath, are such as sucke in all,
That doe approach you!

Pec.
Who hath chang'd my seruant?

P. Iv.
Your selfe, who drinke my blood vp with your beames,
As doth the Sunne, the Sea! Pecunia shines
More in the world then he: and makes it Spring
Where e'r she fauours! 'please her but to show
Her melting wrests, or bare her yuorie hands,
She catches still! her smiles they are Loue's fetters!
Her brests his apples! her teats Stawberries!
Where Cupid (were he present now) would cry
Fare well my mothers milke, here's sweeter Nectar!
Helpe me to praise Pecunia, Gentlemen:
She's your Princesse, lend your wits,

Fit.
A Lady,
They all beginne the encomium of Pecunia.
The Graces taught to moue!

Alm.
The Houres did nurse!

Fit.
Whose lips are the instructions of all Louers!

Alm.
Her eyes their lights, and riualls to the Starres!

Fit.
A voyce, as if that Harmony still spake!

Alm.
And polish'd skinne, whiter then Venus foote!

Fit.
Young Hebes necke, or Iunoe's armes!

Alm.
A haire,
Large as the Mornings, and her breath as sweete,
As meddowes after raine, and but new mowne!

Fit.
Læda might yeeld vnto her, for a face!

Alm.
Hermione for brests!

Fit.
Flora, for cheekes!

Alm.
And Helen for a mouth!

P. Iv.
Kisse, kisse 'hem, Princesse.

She kisseth them.
Fit.
The pearle doth striue in whitenesse, with her necke,

Alm.
But loseth by it: here the Snow thawes Snow;
One frost resolues another!

Fit.
O, she has
A front too slippery to be look't vpon!

Alm.
And glances that beguile the seers eyes!

Againe.
P. Iv.
Kisse, kisse againe, what saies my man o' warre?

Shv.
I say, she's more, then Fame can promise of her.
A Theame, that's ouercome with her owne matter!
Praise is strucke blind, and deafe, and dumbe with her!
Shee doth astonish Commendation!

P. Iv.
Well pumpt i'faith old Sailor: kisse him too:
She kisseth Captaine Shunfield.
Though he be a slugge. What saies my Poet-sucker!
He's chewing his Muses cudde, I doe see by him.

Mad.
I haue almost done, I want but e'ne to finish.

Fit.
That's the 'ill luck of all his workes still.

P. Iv.
What?

Fit.
To beginne many works, but finish none;

P. Iv.
How does he do his Mistresse work?

Fit.
Imperfect.

Alm.
I cannot thinke he finisheth that.

P. Iv.
Let's heare.

Mad.
It is a Madrigall, I affect that kind
Of Poem, much.

P. Iv.
And thence you ha' the name.

Fit.
It is his Rose. He can make nothing else

Mad.
I made it to the tune the Fidlers play'd,
That we all lik'd so well.

P. Iv.
Good, read it, read it.

Mad.
The Sunne is father of all mettalls, you know,
Siluer, and gold.

P. Iv.
I, leaue your Prologues, say!

SONG.
Madrigal.
As bright as is the Sunne her Sire,
Or Earth her mother, in her best atyre,
Or Mint; the Mid-wife, with her fire,
Comes forth her Grace!
The splendour of the wealthiest Mines!

P. Iv.
That Mint the Midwife does well.

[Mad.]
The stamp, and strength of all imperiall lines,
Both maiesty and beauty shines,
In her sweet face!

Fit.
That's fairely said of Money.

[Mad.]
Looke how a Torch, of Taper light,
Or of that Torches flame, a Beacon bright;

P. Iv.
Good!

Mad.
Now there, I want a line to finish, Sir.

P. Iv.
Or of that Beacons fire, Moone-light:

Fit.
'Tis good.

Mad.

Pic.
Call in the Fidlers. Nicke, the boy shall sing it,
Sweet Princesse, kisse him, kisse 'hem all, deare Madame,
He vrgeth her to kisse them all.
And at the close, vouchsafe to call them Cousins.

Pec.
Sweet Cousin Madrigall, and Cousin Fitton,
My Cousin Shunfield, and my learned Cousin.

P. Ca.
Al-manach, though they call him Almanack.

P. Iv.
Why, here's the Prodigall prostitutes his Mistresse!

P. Iv.
And Picklocke, he must be a kinsman too.
My man o' Law will teach vs all to winne,
And keepe our owne. Old Founder.

P. Ca.
Nothing, I Sir?
I am a wretch, a begger. She the fortunate.
Can want no kindred, wee, the poore know none.

Fit.
Nor none shall know, by my consent.

Alm.
Nor mine,

P. Iv.
Sing, boy, stand here.

P. Ca.
Look, look, how all their eyes
The boy sings the song.
Dance i'their heads (obserue) scatter'd with lust!
At sight o'their braue Idoll! how they are tickl'd,
With a light ayre! the bawdy Saraband!
They are a kinde of dancing engines all!
And set, by nature, thus, to runne alone
To euery sound! All things within, withou them,
Moue, but their braine, and that stands still! mere monsters
Here, in a chamber, of most subtill feet!
And make their legs in tune, passing the streetes!
These are the gallant spirits o'the age!
The miracles o'the time! that can cry vp
And downe mens wits! and set what rate on things
Their half-brain'd fancies please! Now pox vpon 'hem.
See how solicitously he learnes the Iigge,
As if it were a mystery of his faith!

Shv.
A dainty ditty!

Fit.
O, hee's a dainty Poet!
When he sets to't!

P. Iv.
And a dainty Scholler!

They are all struck with admiration.
Alm.
No, no great scholler, he writes like a Gentleman.

Shv.
Pox o'your Scholler.

P. Ca.
Pox o'your distinction!
As if a Scholler were no Gentleman.
With these, to write like a Gentleman, will in time
Become, all one, as to write like an Asse,
These Gentlemen? these Rascalls! I am sicke
Of indignation at 'hem.

P. Iv.
How doe you lik't, Sir?

Fit.
'Tis excellent!

Alm.
'Twas excellently sung!

Fit.
A dainty Ayre!

P. Iv.
What saies my Lickfinger?

Lic.
I am telling Mistresse Band, and Mistresse Statute,
What a braue Gentleman you are, and Waxe, here!
How much 'twere better, that my Ladies Grace,
Would here take vp Sir, and keepe house with you.

P. Iv.
What say they?

Sta.
We could consent, Sr, willingly.

Band.
I, if we knew her Grace had the least liking.

Wax.
We must obey her Graces will, and pleasure.

P. Iv.
I thanke you, Gentlewomen, ply 'hem, Lickfinger.
Giue mother Mortgage, there—

Lic.
Her doze of Sacke.
I haue it for her, and her distance of Hum.

Pec.
Indeede therein, I must confesse, deare Cousin,
The Gallants are all about Pecunia.
I am a most vnfortunate Princesse.

Alm.
And
You still will be so, when your Grace may helpe it.

Mad.
Who'ld lie in a roome, with a close-stoole, and garlick?
And kennell with his dogges? that had a Prince
Like this young Peny-boy, to soiourne with?

Shv.
He'll let you ha' your liberty—

Alm.
Goe forth,
Whither you please, and to what company—

Mad.
Scatter your selfe amongst vs—

P. Iv.
Hope of Pernassus!
Thy Iuy shall not wither, nor thy Bayes,
Thou shalt be had into her Graces Cellar,
And there know Sacke, and Claret, all December,
Thy veine is rich, and we must cherish it.
Poets and Bees swarme now adaies, but yet
There are not those good Tauemes, for the one sort,
As there are Flowrie fields to feed the other.
Though Bees be pleas'd with dew, aske little Waxe
That brings the honey to her Ladyes hiue:
The Poet must haue wine. And he shall haue it.