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.
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,

7 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 humorously 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 celebrated 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.

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!

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

8 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.

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!

Boy. Here, father.

Enter Boy.

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;
But have their garlic, as the proverb says.
They are our Quest of Enquiry after news.
Poet. Together with their learned authors?
Boy. Yes, sir.

And of the epicone gender, hees, and shees :
Amphibion Archy is the chief.

Cook. Good boy!

The child is learned too: note but the kitchen!

Have you put him into the pot, for garlic ?

Boy. One in his coat shall stink as strong as he, sir, And his friend Giblets with him.

When they come pouring out of the pot together.
Boy. O, if the pot had been big enough!

Cook. What then, child?

Boy. I had put in the elephant, and one camel, At least, for beef.

Cook. But, whom have you for partridge?

Boy. A brace of dwarfs, and delicate plump birds.
Cook. And whom for mutton, and kid?
Boy. A fine laced mutton,"

Or two; and either has her frisking husband:
That reads her the Corranto, every week.
Grave master Ambler, news-master o' Paul's,
Supplies your capon; and grown captain Buz,
His emissary, under-writes for Turkey;
A gentleman of the Forest presents pheasant,
And a plump poulterer's wife, in Grace's street,
Plays hen with eggs in the belly, or a coney,
Choose which you will.

Cook. But where's the bacon, Tom?

Boy. Hogrel the butcher, and the sow his wife, Are both there.

Cook. It is well; go dish them out.

Are they well boil'd?

Boy. Podrida!

Poet. What's that, rotten?

Cook. O, that they must be. There's one main ingredient

We have forgot, the artichoke.

Boy. No, sir;

I have a fruiterer, with a cold red nose

Like a blue fig, performs it.

Cook. The fruit looks so.

Good child, go pour them out, shew their concoction. They must be rotten boil'd; 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

9 A fine laced mutton.] A cant term for a wanton. Some of the characters mentioned in this speech, the author subsequently introduced into the Staple of News.

Be yours, yet, envy not the cook his art.
Poet. Not I: nam lusus ipse Triumphus amat.
Here the ANTIMASQUE is danced by the persons
described, coming out of the pot.

Poet. Well, now, expect the scene itself; it opens!

The island of DELOS is discovered, the Masquers sitting in their several sieges. The heavens opening, and APOLLO, with MERCURY, some of the Muses, and the goddess HARMONY, make the music: the while the island moves forward, PROTEUS sitting below, and APOLLO sings.

SONG.

Apol. Look forth, the shepherd of the seas,
And of the ports that keep'st the keys,
And to your Neptune tell,

His Albion, prince of all his isles,
For whom the sea and land so smiles,
Is home returned well.

Grand Cho. And be it thought no common cause,
That, to it, so much wonder draws,
And all the heavens consent,
With Harmony, to tune their notes,
In answer to the public votes,
That for it up were sent.

It was no envious step-dame's rage,
Or tyrant's malice of the age,

That did employ him forth:

But such a wisdom that would prove
By sending him their hearts, and love,
That else might fear his worth.

By this time, the island hath joined itself with the shore and PROTEUS, PORTUNUS, and SARON come