COOK

Then, Brother Poet, I have a suit. Your devise. Silence. But, why not this, till now? I Like it well, 'tis handsome: And I have Some thing would fit this. How do you present them? In a fine Island, say you? I con e you. I would have had your I'll brought oting in, now In a brave broth, and of a sprightly green, Just to the colour of the Sea; and then, Some twenty Sire's, singing in the kettel, With and Arion, mounted on the back Of a grown Conger, but in such a posture, As, all the world should take him for a Dolphin: Oh, 'twould have made such music! have you nothing, But a bore Island? Your prime Masquers? But where's your Antimasque now, all this while? I Harken after them. None? Oh, you are all the heaven awry! Sir. For blood of Poetry, running in your veins, Make not your self so ignorantly simple. Because Sir, you shall see I am a Poet, No less then Cook, and that I find you want A special service here, and 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 rea die, Child? (Had there been Mask, or no Mask, I had made it.) Child of the boiling house. Bring forth the pot. It is and Olla Podrida, But I have persons, to present the meats. Such as do relish nothing, but di stato, (But in another fashion, then 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 correspondences are held; the Posts That go, & come, and know, almost, their minutes, All but their business: Therein, they are fish. But have their garlic, as the Proverb says, They are our Quest of enquiry, after news. Good boy! The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchen. Have you put him, into the pot, for Garlic? They are two, That give a partly of the seasoning. You will Like it, When they come powering out of the pot together. What then, Child? But, whom have you for Partridge? And whom for Mutton, and Kid? But, where's the Bacon, Thom? It is well, go, dish them out. Are they well boiled? Oh, that they must be. There's one main ingredient We have forgotten, the Artichoke. The fruit looks so. Good child, go pour he ̄ out, show their concoctio ̄ . They must be rot ̄ boiled, the brotn's the best on't, And that's the Dance. The stage here is the Char her. And Brother Poet, though the serious partly Be yours, yet, envy not the C his art. I have another service fer you, Brother Poet, a dish of pickled Sailors, fine salt Sea-boyes, shall relish Like Anchoues, or Caveare, to draw down a cup of nectar, in the skirts of a night.