To them.] Lickfinger, Pecunia, Statute, Band, Wax.
I
Hope the fare was good.
Pec.
Yes, Lickfinger,
And we shall thank you for't, and reward you.
Mad.
Nay, I'll not lose my argument, Lickfinger;
[Lickfinger is challeng'd by Madrigal of
an Argument.
Before these Gentlemen, I affirm,
The perfect, and true strain of Poetry,
Is rather to be given the quick Celler,
Than the fat Kitchen.
Lic.
Heretick, I see
Thou art for the vain Oracle of the Bottle.
The Hogshead, Trismegistus is thy Pegasus.
Thence flows thy Muses Spring, from that hard Hoof:
Seduced Poet, I do say to thee,
A Boyler, Range, and Dresser were the Fountains
Of all the Knowledge in the Universe.
And they 'are the Kitchens, where the Master-Cook —
(Thou dost not know the Man, nor canst thou know him,
Till thou hast serv'd some years in that deep School,
That's both the Nurse and Mother of the Arts,
And hear'st him read, interpret, and demonstrate!)
A Master-Cook! Why, he's the Man o' 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 dri-dishes, some motes 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 Tacticks, at one Dinner:
What Ranks, what Files, to put his 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 Chymists,
Or airy Brethren of the Rosie-cross.
He is an Architect, an Ingineer,
A Soldier, 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 shews, if there were nothing else!
And 'tis Divine! I shall for ever hereafter,
Admire the wisdom of a Cook!
Ban.
And we, Sir!
[Peni-boy is courting his Princess all the while.
P. jun.
O, how my Princess draws me with her looks,
And hales me in, as Eddies draw in Boats,
Or strong Charybdis Ships, that sail too near
The Shelves of Love! The Tides of your two Eyes!
Wind of your Breath, are such as suck in all
That do approach you!
Pec.
Who hath chang'd my servant?
P. jun.
Your self, who drink my Blood up with your Beams;
As doth the Sun, the Sea! Pecunia shines
More in the World than he: and makes it Spring
Where e'er she favours! 'please her but to show
Her melting Wrists, or bare her Ivory Hands,
She catches still! her Smiles they are Love's Fetters!
Her Breasts his Apples! her Teats Strawberries!
Where Cupid (were he present now) would cry,
Fare well my Mothers Milk, here's sweeter Nectar!
Help me to praise Pecunia, Gentlemen:
She's your Princess, lend your wits.
Fit.
A Lady
The Graces taught to move!
Alm.
The Hours did nurse.
[They all begin the Encomium of Pecunia.
Fit.
Whose Lips are the instructions of all Lovers!
Alm.
Her Eyes their lights, and rivals to the Stars!
Fit.
A Voice, as if that Harmony still spake!
Alm.
And polish'd Skin, whiter than Venus Foot!
Fit.
Young Hebes Neck, or Juno's Arms!
Alm.
A Hair,
Large as the Mornings, and her Breath as sweet
As Meddows after Rain, and but new mown!
Fit.
Læda might yield unto her, for a Face!
Alm. Hermione for Breasts!
Fit.
Flora, for Cheeks!
Alm.
And Helen for a Mouth!
[She kisseth them.
P. jun.
Kiss, kiss 'em, Princess.
Fit.
The Pearl doth strive in whiteness with her Neck,
Alm.
But loseth by it: here the Snow thaws Snow;
One frost resolves another!
Fit.
O, she has
A Front too slippery to be look't upon!
Alm.
And glances that beguile the seer's Eyes!
P. jun.
Kiss, kiss again; what says my Man o' War?
[Again.
Shun.
I say, she's more than Fame can promise of her.
A Theme that's overcome with her own matter!
Praise is struck blind, and deaf, and dumb with her!
She doth astonish Commendation!
P. jun.
Well pumpt i' faith old Sailor: kiss him too,
[She kisseth Captain Shunfield.
Though he be a slug. What says my Poet-sucker?
He's chewing his Muses cud, I do see by him.
Mad.
I have almost done, I want but e'en to finish.
Fit.
That's the 'ill luck of all his works still.
P. jun.
What?
Fit.
To begin many works, but finish none;
P. jun.
How does he do his Mistris work?
Fit.
Imperfect.
Alm.
I cannot think he finisheth that.
P. jun.
Let's hear.
Mad.
It is a Madrigal, I affect that kind
Of Poem, much.
P. jun.
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. jun.
Good, read it, read it.
Mad.
The Sun is Father of all Mettals, you know,
Silver, and Gold.
P. jun.
I, leave your Prologues, say!
S O N G.
Mad.
AS bright as is the Sun her Sire,
Or Earth her Mother, in her best Attire,
Or Mint, the Mid-wife, with her fire,
P. jun.
That Mint
the Midwife does
well.
Comes forth her Grace!
The splendour of the wealthiest
Mines!
The stamp, and strength of all imperial
lines,
Fit.
That's fairly
said of Money.
Both Majesty and Beauty shines,
In her sweet Face!
Look how a Torch, of Taper light,
[P. jun. Good!
Or of that Torches flame, a Beacon bright;
Mad.
Now there, I want a Line to finish, Sir.
P. jun.
Or of that Beacons fire, Moon-light:
[Fit. 'Tis good.
Mad.
So takes she place!
And then I 'have a Saraband ——
She makes good Chear, she keeps full Boards,
She holds a Fair of Knights and Lords,
A Market of all Offices,
And Shops of Honour, more or less.
According to Pecunia's Grace,
The Bride hath Beauty, Blood, and Place;
The Bridegroom Vertue, Valour, Wit,
And Wisdom, as he stands for it.
Pic.
Call in the Fidlers. Nick, the Boy shall sing it,
Sweet Princess, kiss him, kiss 'em all, dear Madam,
And at the close, vouchsafe to call them Cousins.
[He urgeth her to kiss them all.
Pec.
Sweet Cousin Madrigal, and Cousin Fitton,
My Cousin Shunfield, and my learned Cousin.
P. Ca.
Al-manach, though they call him Almanack.
P. jun.
Why, here's the Prodigal prostitutes his Mistris!
P. jun.
And Picklock, he must be a Kinsman too.
My Man o' Law will teach us all to win,
And keep our own. Old Founder.
P. Ca.
Nothing, I Sir?
I am a Wretch, a Begger. She the fortunate,
Can want no Kindred; we the poor know none.
Fit.
Nor none shall know, by my consent.
Alm. Nor mine.
[The Boy sings the Song.
P. jun.>
Sing, Boy, stand here.
P. Ca.
Look, look, how all their Eyes
Dance i' their Heads (observe) scatter'd with Lust!
At sight o' their brave Idol! how they are tickl'd,
With a light Air! the bawdy Saraband!
They are a kind of dancing Engines all!
And set by Nature, thus to run alone
To every sound! All things within, without them,
Move, but their Brain, and that stands still! mere Monsters
Here, in a Chamber, of most subtil Feet!
And make their Legs in tune, passing the Streets!
These are the gallant Spirits o' the Age!
The Miracles o' the time! that can cry up
And down Mens Wits! and set what rate on things
Their half-brain'd Fancies please! Now Pox upon 'em.
See how solicitously he learns the Jigg,
As if it were a Mystery of his Faith!
Shun.
A dainty ditty!
Fit.
O, he's a dainty Poet!
When he sets to't!
P. jun.
And a dainty Scholar!
[They are all struck with admiration.
Alm.
No, no great Scholar, he writes like a Gentleman.
Shun.
Pox o' your Scholar.
P. Ca.
Pox o' your distinction!
As if a Scholar were no Gentleman.
With these, to write like a Gentleman, will in time
Become, all one, as to write like an Ass.
These Gentlemen? these Rascals! I am sick
Of indignation at 'em.
P. jun.
How do you lik't, Sir?
Fit.
'Tis excellent!
Alm.
'Twas excellently sung!
Fit.
A dainty Air!
P. jun.
What says my Lickfinger?
Lic.
I am telling Mistris Band, and Mistris Statute,
What a brave Gentleman you are, and Wax, here!
How much 'twere better, that my Ladies Grace,
Would here take up Sir, and keep House with you.
P. jun.
What say they?
Sta.
We could consent, Sir, willingly.
Band.
I, if we knew her Grace had the least liking.
Wax.
We must obey her Graces will and pleasure.
P. jun.
I thank you, Gentlewoman, ply 'em, Lickfinger.
Give Mother Mortgage, there ———
Lic.
Her dose of Sack.
I have it for her, and her distance of Hum.
Pec.
Indeed therein, I must confess, dear Cousin,
I am a most unfortunate Princess.
Alm.
And
You still will be so, when your Grace may help it.
[The Gallants are all about Pecunia.
Mad.
Who'ld lie in a Room, with a Close-stool, and
Garlick,
And kennel with his Dogs, that had a Prince
Like this young Peni-boy, to sojourn with?
Shun.
He'll let you ha' your liberty —
Alm.
Go forth,
Whither you please, and to what Company —
Mad.
Scatter your self amongst us —
P. jun.
Hope of Pernassus!
Thy Ivy shall not wither, nor thy Bays,
Thou shalt be had into her Graces Cellar,
And there know Sack, and Claret, all December,
Thy Vein is rich, and we must cherish it.
Poets and Bees swarm now adays, but yet
There are not those good Taverns, for the one sort,
As there are Flowry Fields to feed the other.
Though Bees be pleas'd with Dew, ask little Wax,
That brings the Honey to her Ladies Hive:
The Poet must have Wine. And he shall have it.