Shunfield, Almanack, Madrigal, Clerks.
BY your leave, Clerks,
Where shall we dine to day? do you know? the Jeerers.
Alm.
Where's my fellow Fitton?
Tho.
New gone forth.
Shun.
Cannot your Office tell us, what brave fellows
Do eat together to Day, in Town, and where?
Tho.
Yes, there's a Gentleman, the brave Heir, young
Peni-boy,
Dines in Apollo.
Mad.
Come, let's thither then,
I ha' supt in Apollo!
Alm.
With the Muses.
Mad.
No,
But with two Gentlewomen, call'd the Graces.
Alm.
They' were ever three in Poetry.
Mad.
This was truth, Sir.
Tho.
Sir, Master Fitton's there too!
Shun.
All the better!
Alm.
We may have a jeer, perhaps.
Shun.
Yes, you'll drink, Doctor,
(If there be any good Meat) as much good Wine now,
As would lay up a Dutch Ambassador.
Tho.
If he dine there, he's sure to have good Meat,
For Lickfinger provides the Dinner.
Alm.
Who?
The glory o' the Kitchin? that holds Cookery
A Trade from Adam? quotes his Broths and Sallads?
And swears he's not dead yet, but translated
In some immortal Crust, the Paste of Almonds?
Mad.
The same. He holds no Man can be a Poet,
That is not a good Cook, to know the Palats,
And several tastes o' the time. He draws all Arts
Out of the Kitchin, but the Art of Poetry,
Which he concludes the same with Cookery.
Shun.
Tut, he maintains more Heresis than that.
He'll draw the Magisterium from a Minc'd-pye,
And prefer Jellies, to your Julips, Doctor.
Alm.
I was at an Olla Podrida of his making,
Was a brave piece of Cookery! at a Funeral!
But opening the Pot-lid, he made us laugh,
Who' had wept all Day! and sent us such a tickling
Into our Nostrils, as the Funeral Feast
Had bin a Wedding-dinner.
Shun.
Gi' him allowance,
And that but moderate, he will make a Syren
Sing i' the Kettle, send in an Arion,
In a brave Broth, and of a watry Green,
Just the Sea-colour, mounted on the back
Of a grown Cunger, but in such a posture,
As all the World would take him for a Dolphin.
Mad.
He's a rare Fellow, without question! but
He holds some Paradoxes.
Alm.
I, and Pseudodoxes.
Marry, for most, he's Orthodox i' the Kitchin.
Mad.
And knows the Clergies taste!
Alm.
I, and the Laieties!
Shun.
You think not o' your time, we'll come too late,
If we go not presently.
Mad.
Away then.
Shun.
Sirs,
You must get o' this News, to store your Office,
Who dines and sups i' the Town? where, and with whom?
'Twill be beneficial: when you are stor'd,
And as we like our fare, we shall reward you.
Cla.
A hungry Trade, 'twill be.
Tho.
Much like D. Humphries,
But, now and then, as th' holesome Proverb says,
'Twill obsonare famem ambulando.
Cla.
Shut up the Office, gentle Brother Thomas.
Tho.
Brother Nathaniel, I ha' the Wine for you.
I hope to see us, one day, Emissaries.
Cla.
Why not? 'Slid, I despair not to be Master!