Which only Fame hath made a crime,

For Time is wise,

And hath his ears as perfect as his eyes.

Sat. Who's that descends?

Vot. Yes.

Diana?

Ven. Belike her troop she hath begun to miss.
Sat. Let's meet, and question what her errand is.
Hip. She will prevent thee, Saturn, not to excuse
Herself unto thee, rather to complain

Dia.

That thou and Venus both should so abuse
The name of Dian as to entertain

A thought that she had purpose to defraud
The Time of any glories that were his :
To do Time honour rather, and applaud
His worth, hath been her study.

And it is.

I called these youths forth in their blood and prime,
Out of the honour that I bore their parts,

To make them fitter so to serve the Time

By labour, riding, and those ancient arts,
That first enabled men unto the wars,
And furnished heaven with so many stars:
Hip. As Perseus, Castor, Pollux, and the rest,

Who were of hunters first, of men the best;
Whose shades do yet remain within yond' groves,
Themselves there sporting with their nobler loves.
Dia. And so may these do, if the Time give leave.
Sat. Chaste Dian's purpose we do now conceive,
And yield thereto.

Ven. And so doth Love.

Vot. All votes do in one circle move.

Grand Cho. Turn hunters then,

Again.

Hunting, it is the noblest exercise,

Makes men laborious, active, wise,

Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,

It helps the hearing and the sight:
It teacheth arts that never slip

The memory, good horsemanship,
Search, sharpness, courage, and defence,
And chaseth all ill habits thence.

Turn hunters then,

Again,

But not of men.

Follow his ample

And just example,

That hates all chase of malice and of blood:
And studies only ways of good,

To keep soft peace in breath.

Man should not hunt mankind to death,
But strike the enemies of man ;

Kill Vices if you can:

They are your wildest beasts,

And when they thickest fall, you make the gods true feasts.

THUS IT ENDED.

NEPTUNE'S TRIUMPH

FOR THE

RETURN OF ALBION,

Celebrated in a Masque at the Court on the Twelfth Night, 1624.

OMNIS ET AD REDUCEM JAM LITAT ARA DEUM.-MART.

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 cloak?

Poet. Nothing, but what I colour for, I assure you; and may encounter with, I hope, if luck favour 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 Banquetinghouse. 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 Mastercook.

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 master-cook. Either's art is the wisdom of

the mind.

Poet. As how, sir?

Cook. Expect. I am by my place to know how 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 Walloon, the Neapolitan, the Briton, 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 learned, 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 asked.

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.

Seducéd 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 demonstrate.
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 moats round with broths,
Mounts marrow-bones; cuts fifty-angled custards;
Rears bulwark pies; and, for his outer works,
He raiseth ramparts of immortal crust,
And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner.
What ranks, what files, to put the dishes in,
The whole art military! then he knows
The influence of the stars upon his meats;
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-breeched brethren of the Rosy-cross!
He is an architect, an inginer,

A soldier, a physician, a philosopher,

A general mathematician!

Poet. It is granted.

Cook. And that you may not doubt him for a PoetPoet. This fury shows, if there were nothing else;

And 'tis divine!

Cook. Then, brother Poet.

Poet. Brother.

Cook. I have a suit.

Poet. What is it?

Cook. Your device.