University of Virginia Library

His Mat i e being set, and the loude Musique ceasing. All, that is discovered of a Scene, are two erected Pillars, dedicated to Neptune, with this inscription upon the one,
On the other,
The POET entring on the STAGE, to disperse the Argument, is call'd to by the Master-Cooke.
Cooke.

Doe you heare, you, Creature of diligence, and businesse! what is
the affaire, that you plucke for so, under your cloake?

Poet.

Nothing, but what I colour for, I assure you; and may encounter
with, I hope, if Luck favour me, the Gamsters Goddesse.

Cooke.

You are a Votary of hers, it seemes by your language. What went you
upon? may a man aske you?

Poet.

Certainties, indeed Sir, and very good ones; the presentation of a
Masque; you'll see't, anone.

Cooke.

Sir, this is my roome, and region too, the banquetting-house. And in
matter of feast, the solemnitie, nothing is to be presented here, but with
my acquaintance, and allowance to it.

Poet.

You are not his Majesties Confectioner? Are you?

Cooke.

No, but one that has as good title to the roome, his Master-Cooke. 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 yeare, for a trifling instrument,
of wit, or so.

Cooke.

Were you ever a Cooke?

Poet.

A Cooke? no surely.

Cooke.

Then you can be no good Poet: for a good Poet differs nothing at all
from a Master-Cooke. Eithers Art is the wisedome of the Mind.

Poet.

As how, Sir?

Cooke.

Expect. I am by my place, to know how to please the palates of the
guests; so, you, are to know the palate of the times: study the severall
tastes, what every Nation, the Spaniard, the Dutch, the French, the Walloun,
the Neapolitan, the Brittan, the Sicilian, can expect from you.

Poet.

That were a heavie and hard taske, to satisfie Expectation, who is so severe
an exactresse of duties; ever a tyrannous mistresse: and most times
a pressing enemie.

Cooke.

She is a powerfull great Lady, Sir, at all times, and must be satisfied:
So must her sister, Madam Curiositie, who hath as daintie a palate as she,
and these will expect.

Poet.

But, what if they expect more then they understand?

Cooke.

That's all one, M
r. Poet. you are bound to satisfie 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 faire objects, the Hearing with delicate
sounds, the Smelling with pure sents, the feeling with soft and
plumpe bodyes, but the Understanding with all these: for all which
you must begin at the Kitchin. There, the Art of Poetrie was learn'd.

and found out, or no where: and the same day, with the Art of Cookery.

Poet.

I should have giv'n it rather to the Cellar, if my suffrage had bin askt.

Cooke.

O, you are for the 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 knowledge, in the Universe,
And that's the Kitchin. Where, a Master-Cooke!
Thou do'st not know the man! nor canst thou know him!
Till thou hast serv'd some yeares in that deepe schoole,
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 carves, he builds, he fortifies,
Makes Citadels of curious fowle, and fish,
Some he dry-ditches, some motes round 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! Then he knowes
The influence of the starres, upon his meates;
And all their seasons, tempers, qualities,
And so, to fit his relishes, and sauces!
He, has Nature in a pot! 'bove all the Chemists,
Or bare-breech'd brethren of the Rosie-Crosse!
He is an Architect, an Inginer,
A Souldier, a Physition, a Philosopher,
A generall Mathematician!

Poet.
It is granted.

Cooke.
And, that you may not-doubt him for a Poet,

Poet.
This Fury shewes, if there were nothing else.
And 'tis divine!

Cooke.
Then, Brother Poet,

Poet.
Brother.

Cooke.
I have a suite.

Poet.
What is it?

Cooke.
Your devise.

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

Cooke.
Silence.

Poet.
The mightie Neptune, mightie in his styles,
And large command of waters, and of Isles,
Not, as the Lord and Soveraigne of the Seas,
But, Chiefe in the art of riding, Iate did please
To send his Albion forth, the most his owne,
Upon discovery, to themselves best knowne,
Through Celtiberia; and, to assist his course,
Gave him his powerfull Manager of Horse,
With divine Proteus, Father of disguise,
To waite upon them with his counsels wise,
In all extreames. His great commands being done,
And he desirous to review his Sonne,
He doth dispatch a floting Ile, 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 encountred on the coast,
How neere our generall Joy was to be lost,
Is not our subject 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 return'd,
Who for it, under so much envie, burn'd
With his owne brightnesse, till her sterv'd snakes saw
What Neptune did impose, to him was law.

Cooke.
But, why not this, till now?

Poet.
—It was not time,
To mixe this Musick with the vulgars chime.
Stay, till th'abortive, and extemporall dinne
Of balladry, were understood a sinne,
Minerva cry'd: that, what tumultuous verse,
Or prose could make, or steale, they might rehearse,
And every Songster had sung out his fit;
That all the Countrey, and the Citie-wit,
Of bells, and bonfires, and good cheere was spent,
And Neptunes Guard had drunke all 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, undeterr'd
For they love, then, to sing, when they are heard.

Cooke.
I like it well, 'tis handsome: and I have
Some thing would fit this. How doe you present'hem?
In a fine Iland, say you?

Poet.
Yes, a Delus:
Such, as when faire Latona fell in cravaile,
Great Neptune made emergent.

Cooke.
I conceive you.
I would have had your Ile brought floting in, now
In a brave broth, and of a sprightly greene,
Just 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?

Poet.
Yes, we have a tree too,
Which we doe call the Tree of Harmonie,
And is the same with 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 every side
The boughes decline, which taking roote afresh,
Spring up new boles, and those spring new, and newer,
Till the whole tree become a Porticus,
Or arched Arbour, able to receive
A numerous troupe, such as our Albion,
And the Companions of his journey are,
And this they sit in.

Cooke.
Your prime Masquers?

Poet.
Yes.

Cooke.
But where's your Antimasque now, all this while?
I hearken after them.

Poet.
Faith, we have none.

Cooke.
None?

Poet.
None, I assure you, neither doe I thinke them
A worthy part of presentation,
Being things so heterogene, to all devise,
Meere By-workes, and at best Out-landish nothings.

Cooke.
O, you are all the heaven awrie! Sir.
For blood of Poetry, running in your veines,
Make not your selfe so ignorantly simple.
Because Sir, you shall see I am a Poet,
No lesse then Cooke, and that I find you want
A speciall service here, an Antimasque,
I'le fit you with a dish out of the Kitchin,
Such, as I thinke, will take the present palates,
A metaphoricall dish! And, doe but marke,
How a good wit may jumpe with you. Are you ready, Child?
(Had there bin Maske, or no Maske, I had made it.)
Child of the boyling house.

Child.
Here, Father.

Cooke.
Bring forth the pot. It is an Olla Podrida,
But I have persons, to present the meates.

Poet.
Persons!

Cooke.
Such as doe relish nothing, but di state,
(But in another fashion, then you dreame of)
Know all things the wrong way, talke of the affaires,
The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries
That are a foot, and, from what hands they have'hem
(The master of the Elephant, or the Camels)
What correspondences are held; the Posts
That goe, and come, and know, almost, their minutes,
All but their businesse: Therein, they are fishes.
But ha' their garlick, as the Proverb sayes,
They are our Quest of enquiry, after newes.

Poet.
Together with their learned Authors?

Child.
Yes Sir,
And of the Epicæne gender, Hees, and Shees:
Amphibion Archy is the chiefe.

Cooke.
Good boy!
The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchin.
Have you put him, into the pot, for Garlick?

Child.
One in his coate, shall stinke as strong as he, Sir,
And his friend Giblets with him.

Cooke.
They are two,
That give a part of the seasoning.

Poet.
I coneeive
The way of your Gally-mawfrey.

Cooke.
You will like it,
When they come pouring out of the pot together.

Child.
O, if the pot had beene big enough!

Cooke.
What then, Child?

Child.
I had put in the Elephant, and one Camel,
at least, for Biefe.

Cooke.
But, whom ha'you for Partridge?

Child.
A brace of Dwarfes, and delicate plump birds!

Cooke.
And whom for Mutton, and Kid?

Child.
A fine lac'd Mutton,
Or two; and either has her frisking Husband:
That reades her the Corranto, every weeke.
Grave Mr. Ambler, Newes-master of Poules,
Supplies your Capon; and growne Captaine Buz
(His Emissary) under-writes 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 Coney,
Choose which you will.

Cooke.
But, where's the Bacon, Thom?

Child.
Hogrel the Butcher, and the Sow his wife,
Are both there.

Cooke.
It is well, goe, dish'hem out.
Are they well boyld?

Child.
Podrida!

Poet.
What's that? rotten?

Cooke.
O, that they must be. There's one maine ingredient
We have forgot, the Artichoke.

Child.
No Sir.
I have a Fruicterer, with a cold red nose,
Like a blue fig, performes it.

Cooke.
The fruit lookes so,
Good child, goe poure'hem out, shew their concoction.
They must be rotten boyld, the broth's the best on't,
And that's the Dance. The stage here is the Charger.
And Brother Poet, though the serious part
Be yours, yet, envie not the Cooke his art.

Poet.
Not I. Nam lusus ipse Triumphus amat.

The Antimasque is danc'd by the persons describ'd, comming out of the pot.
Poet.
Well, now, expect the Scene it selfe, it opens!

The Iland is discovered, the Masquers sitting in their severall sieges. The heavens opening, and Apollo, with Mercury, some Muses, & the Goddesse Harmony, make the musique, the while, the Iland moves forward, Proteus sitting below, and Apollo sings.
Song.
Apollo.

Chorvs.

By this time, the Island hath joyned it selfe with the shore: And Proteus, Portunus, and Saron; come forth, and goe up singing to the State, while the Masquers take time to Land.
Song.
Protevs.
I! now the Pompe of Neptunes triumph shines!
And all the glories of his great designes
Are read, reflected, in his sonnes returne!

Portvnvs.
How all the eyes, the lookes, the heart here burne
at his arrivall!

Saron.
These are the true fires.
Are made of joyes!

Protevs.
Of longing!

Portvnvs.
Of desires!

Saron.
Of hopes!

Protevs.
Of feares!

Portvnvs.
No intermitted blocks.

Saron.
But pure affections, and from odorous stocks!

Chorvs.
'Tis incense all, that flames!
And these materials scarce have names!

Protevs.
My King lookes higher, as he scorn'd the warres
Of windes, and with his trident touch'd the starres.
There is no wrinkle in his brow, or frowne;
But, as his cares he would in Nectar drowne,
And all the silver-footed Nymphs were drest,
To waite upon him, to the Oceans feast.

Portvnvs.
Or, here in rowes upon the bankes were set,
And had their severall hayres made into net
To catch the youths in, as they come on shore.

Saron.
How! Galatea sighing! O, no more.
Banish your feares.

Portvnvs.
And Doris dry your teares.
Albion is come:

Protevs.
And Haliclyon, too,
That kept his side, as he was charg'd to doe,
With wonder.

Saron.
—And the Syrens have him not,

Portvnvs.
Though they no practise, nor no arts forgot,
That might have wonne him, or by charme, or song.

Protevs.
Or laying forth their tresses all along
Upon the glassie waves;

Portvnvs.
Then diving:

Protevs.
Then,
Up with their heads, as they were mad of men.

Saron.
And there, the highest-going billowes crowne,
Untill some lustie Sea-god pull'd them downe.

Chorvs.
See! He is here!

Protevs.
Great Master of the mayne,
Receive thy deare, and precious pawne againe.

Chorvs.
Saron, Portvnvs, Protevs, bring him thus,
Safe, as thy Subjects wishes gave him us:
And of thy glorious Triumph let it be
No lesse a part, that thou their loves doest see,
Then, that his sacred head's return'd to thee.

This sung, the Island goes backe, whilst the upper Chorus takes it from them, and the Masquers prepare for their figure.
Chorvs.
Spring all the Graces of the age,
And all the Loves of time;
Bring all the pleasures of the stage,
And relishes of rime:
Adde all the softnesses of Courts
The lookes, the laughters, and the sports.
And mingle all their sweets, and salts,
That none may say, the Triumph halts.

Here, the Masquers daunce their Entry.
Which done, the first prospective of a maritime Palace, or the house of Oceanus is discovered, with lowd Musique. And the other above is no more seene.
Poet.
Behold the Palace of Oceanus!
Hayle Reverend structure! Boast no more to us
Thy being able, all the Gods to feasts;
We have seene enough: our Albion was thy guest.

Then followes the Maine Daunce. After which the second prospect of the Sea, is showne, to the former Musicke.
Poet.
Now turne and view the wonders of the deepe,
Where Proteus herds, and Neptunes Orkes doe keepe,
Where all is plough'd, yet still the pasture's greene
The wayes are found; and yet no pathes are seene.

There Proteus, Portunus, Saron, goe up to the Ladyes with this Song,
Protevs.
Come noble Nymphs, and doe not hide
The joyes, for which you so provide:

Saron.
If not to mingle with the men,
What doe you here? goe home agen.

Portvnvs.
Your dressings doe confesse,
By what we see, so curious parts
Of Pallas, and Arachnes arts,
That you could meane no lesse.

Protevs.
Why doe you weare the Silke-wormes toyles;
Or glory in the shell-fish spoyles?
Or strive to shew the graines of ore
That you have gather'd on the shore,
Whereof to make a stocke
To graft the greener Emerald on
Or any better-water'd stone?

Saron.
Or Ruby of the rocke?

Protevs.
Why doe you smell of Amber gris,
Of which was formed Neptunes Neice,
The Queene of Love; unlesse you can
Like Sea-borne Venus love a man?

Saron.
Try, put your selves unto't.

Chorvs.
Your lookes, your smiles, and thoughts that meet,
Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,
doe promise you will do't.

The Revells follow.
Which ended, the Fleete is discovered, while the three Cornets play.
Poet.
'Tis time, your eyes should be refresh'd at length
With 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.

A shout within followes. After which the Cooke enters.
Cooke.

I have another service for you, Brother Poet, a dish of pickled
Saylors, fine salt Sea-boyes, shall relish like Anchoves, or Caveare,
to draw downe a cup of Nectar, in the skirts of a night.

Saylors.

Come away boyes, the Towne is ours, hay for Neptune, and
our young Master.

Poet.
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.

The Antimasque of Saylors.
Then The last Song to the whole Musique, five Lutes, three Cornets, and ten voyces.
Song.
Protevs.
Although we wish the Triumph still might last
For such a Prince, and his discovery past,
Yet now, great Lord of waters, and of Isles,
Give Proteus leave to turne unto his wiles:

Portvnvs.
And, whilst young Albion doth thy labours case,
Dispatch Portunus to thy Ports,

Saron.
And Saron to thy Seas:
To meet old Nereus, with his fifty girles,
From aged Indus laden home with Pearles,
And orient gummes, to burne unto thy name.

Chorvs.
And may thy Subjects 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.

The last Daunce.