Poet. This fury shews, 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.

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

Cook. Silence!

Poet. [reads.] The mighty Neptune, mighty in his styles,

And large command of waters, and of isles;
Not as the "lord and sovereign of the seas,
But" chief in the art of riding," late did please,
To send his Albion forth, the most his own,
Upon discovery, to themselves best known,
Through Celtiberia; and, to assist his course,
Gave him his powerful Manager of Horse,
With divine Proteus, father of disguise,
To wait upon them with his counsels wise,
In all extremes. His great commands being done,
And he desirous to review his son,

3

He doth dispatch a floating isle, 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 encounter'd on the coast,
How near our general joy was to be lost,*

3 With divine Proteus, &c.] This, I believe, was sir Francis Cottington. He had been secretary to sir Charles Cornwallis, and was, at this time, private secretary to the Prince; he was well versed in political affairs, and particularly in those of Spain, where he had resided many years in a public capacity.

• How near our general joy was to be lost.] This alludes to the storm which took place on the Spanish coast, and in which the prince, together with a number of the Spanish nobility who came

Is not our subject now; though all these make
The present gladness greater, for their sake.
But what the triumphs are, the feast, the sport,
And proud solemnities of Neptune's court,
Now he is safe, and Fame's not heard in vain,
But we behold our happy pledge again.
That with him, loyal Hippius is return'd,
Who for it, under so much envy, burn'd

With his own brightness, till her staro'd snakes saw
What Neptune did impose, to him was law.
Cook. But why not this, till now?

Poet. It was not time,

To mix this music with the vulgar's chime.
Stay, till the abortive, and extemporal din
Of balladry, were understood a sin,

Minerva cried; that, what tumultuous verse,
Or prose could make, or steal, they might rehearse,
And every songster had sung out his fit;

That all the country, and the city wit,

Of bells and bonfires, and good cheer was spent, And Neptune's guard had drunk all that they meant, That all the tales and stories now were old

Of the sea-monster Archy, or grown cold:

to take leave of him, was nearly wrecked. The other dangers which Charles is said to have encountered are probably exaggerated by the "poet."

That with him loyal Hippius is return'd.] By Hippius is meant the duke of Buckingham, master of the horse to James the 1st, who accompanied the prince into Spain, to which this speech alludes. WHAL.

Of the sea-monster Archy.] Archibald Armstrong, the court jester, who followed the prince into Spain. Charles seems to have taken a strange fancy to this buffoon, who joined the surly savageness of the bear to the mischievous tricks of the monkey. Howell, who was at Madrid during the Prince's visit, says, in one of his letters, "Our cousin Archy hath more privilege here, than any, for he often goes with his fool's coat where the Infanta is with her Meninos and ladies of honour, and keeps a blowing and blustering among them, and flurts out what he lists." In

The Muses then might venture, undeterr'd,
For they love, then, to sing, when they are heard.
Cook. I like it well, 'tis handsome; and I have
Something would fit this. How do you present
them?

In a fine island, say you?

Poet. Yes, a Delos :

Such, as when fair Latona fell in travail,
Great Neptune made emergent.

Cook. I conceive you.

I would have had your isle brought floating in,

now,

In a brave broth,' and of a sprightly green,

conclusion, he gives a specimen of his ill-manners, which must have been offensive in the highest degree. Book I. lett. 18. "In a brave broth

With an Arion mounted on the back

Of a grown conger, but in such a posture

As all the world should take him for a dolphin.] This is hu morously imitated by Fletcher:

"For fish, I'll make a standing lake of white broth,

And pikes come ploughing up the plumbs before them, Arion on a dolphin, playing Lachrymæ," &c. Rollo, A. II. S. 2. Mr. Weber has happily discovered the pronomen of this cele. brated musician. He was called, it seems, Bike Arion, without the Mr.-"Bike," as he aptly observes, "which signifies a hive of bees, is not in the least applicable, for which reason I must leave it to the reader." This is kind: but Mr. Weber is unjust to the merits of his own text. Does he not know that bees will swarm to a brass kettle? How much rather, then, to the harp of Arion! Hence the name. The verse stands thus in his precious edition (vol. ii. p. 55)

"Ride like Bike Arion on a trout to London." Former editors, whom Mr. Weber treats with all the contempt which his superior attainments justify him in assuming, had supposed that bike (which destroys the metre) was merely an accidental repetition of like, and therefore dropt it: but as this was done without writing a page or two about it, Mr. Weber wonders at their presumption, and very judiciously reinstates it in the text.

Just to the colour of the sea; and then,
Some twenty Syrens, singing in the kettle,
With an Arion mounted on the back

Of a grown conger, but in such a posture,
As all the world should take him for a dolphin:
O, 'twould have made such music! Have you
nothing

But a bare island?

Poet. Yes, we have a tree too,

Which we do call the tree of Harmony,
And is the same with what we read the sun
Brought forth in the Indian Musicana first,
And thus it grows: The goodly bole being got
To certain cubits height, from every side
The boughs decline, which taking root afresh,
Spring up new boles, and these spring new, and

newer,

Till the whole tree become a porticus,

Or arched arbor, able to receive

A numerous troop, such as our Albion,

And the companions of his journey are:
And this they sit in.

Cook. Your prime Masquers?

Poet. Yes.

Cook. But where's your Antimasque now, all this while?

I hearken after them.

Poet. Faith, we have none.

Cook. None!

The goodly bole being got, &c.] Milton treads rather closely upon the heels of Jonson here:

"The fig tree that

In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms

Branching so broad and long, that in the ground
The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade

High over-arch'd, and echoing walks between."
Par. Lost. ix. 1100.

Poet. None, I assure you, neither do I think them

A worthy part of presentation,

Being things so heterogene to all device,
Mere by-works, and at best outlandish nothings.
Cook. O, you are all the heaven awry, sir!
For blood of poetry, running in your veins,
Make not yourself so ignorantly simple.
Because, sir, you shall see I am a poet,
No less than cook, and that I find you want
A special service here, an antimasque,
I'll fit you with a dish out of the kitchen,
Such, as I think, will take the present palates,
A metaphorical dish! and do but mark
How a good wit may jump with you. Are you
ready, child?

(Had there been masque, or no masque, I had made it.)

Child of the boiling-house!

Enter Boy.

Boy. Here, father.

Cook. Bring forth the pot. It is an olla podrida. But I have persons to present the meats. Poet. Persons!

Cook. Such as do relish nothing but di stato, But in another fashion, than you dream of, Know all things the wrong way, talk of the affairs, The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries That are afoot, and from what hands they have

them,

The master of the elephant, or the camels :
What correspondencies are held; the posts
That go, and come, and know almost their minutes,
All but their business: therein, they are fishes;