NEPTUNES TRIUMPH for the return of ALBION, celebrated in a Masque at the Court on the Twelfth night 1623.  Omnis & ad reducem iam litat ara Deunt. Mart. lib. VIII. Epig. XIV.  

NEPTUNES TRIUMPH.  COOKE. 
Then, Brother Poet,  POET. 
Brother.  COOKE. 
I have a suit.  POET. 
What is it?  COOKE. 
Your device.  POET. 
As you came in upon me, I was then  
Offering the argument, and this it is.  COOKE. 
Silence.  POET. 
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 
e A NEPT by which called 〈◊〉 Dame● confe● person ciall how the Albion as by 〈◊〉 vid. 〈◊〉  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,  
He doth dispatch a floating I'll, from hence,  
Unto the Hesperian shores, to waft him thence.  
Where, what the arts were, used to make him stay,  
And how the sirens wooed him, by the way,  
What Monsters he encountered on the coast,  
How near our general joy was to be lost,  
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 returned,  
Who for it, under so much envy, burned  
With his own brightness, till her starved snakes saw  
What Neptune did impose, to him was law.  COOKE. 
But, why not this, till now?  POET. 
— It was not time,  
To mix this Music with the vulgars' chime.  
Stay, till th'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:  
The Muses then might venture, undeterred,  
For they love, then, to sing, when they are heard.  COOKE. 
I like it well, 'tis handsome: And I have  
Some thing would fit this. How do you present 'em?  
In a fine Island, say you?  POET. 
Yes, a 
f Vid. Lucian. in Dialog● & Neptune  Delos:  
Such, as when fair Latena fell in travail,  
Great Neptune made emergent.  COOKE. 
I conceive you.  
I would have had your I'll brought floating in, now  
In a brave broth, and of a sprightly green,  
Just to the colour of the Sea; and then,  
Some twenty sirens, 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 ha' made such music! Ha' 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 
g Vid. St Geogr. Lib.  what we read, the Sun  
Brought forth in the Indian Musicana first,  
And thus it grows. The goodly bowl, being got  
To certain cubits height, from every side  
The boughs decline, which taking root afresh,  
Spring up new boles, & those spring new, & newer,  
Till the whole tree become a Porticus,  
Or arched Arbour, able to receive  
A numerous troop, such as our Albion,  
And the Companions of his journey are.  
And this they sit in  COOKE. 
Your prime Masquers?  POET. 
Yes.  COOKE. 
But where's your Antimasque now, all this while?  
I harken after them.  POET. 
Faith, we have none.  COOKE. 
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.  COOKE. 
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 Mask, or no Mask, I had made it.)  
Child of the boiling house.  CHILD. 
Here, Father.  COOKE. 
Bring forth the pot. It is an Olla Podrida,  
But I have persons, to present the meats.  POET. 
Persons!  COOKE. 
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 'em  
(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 fishes.  
But ha' their garlic, as the Proverb says,  
They are our Quest of enquiry, after news.  POET. 
Together with their learned Authors?  CHILD. 
Yes Sir,  
And of the Epicoene gender, he's, and she's:  
Amphibion Archy is the chief.  COOKE. 
Good boy!  
The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchen.  
Have you put him, into the pot, for Garlic?  CHILD. 
One in his coat, shall stink as strong as he, Sir,  
And his friend Giblets with him.  COOKE. 
They are two,  
That give a part of the seasoning.  POET. 
I conceive  
The way of your gallimaufry.  COOKE. 
You will like it,  
When they come pouring out of the pot together.  CHILD. 
O, if the pot had been big enough!  COOKE. 
What then, Child?  CHILD. 
I had put in the Elephant, and one Camel,  
at least, for beef.  COOKE. 
But, whom ha' you for Partridge?  CHILD. 
A brace of dwarfs, and delicate plump birds!  COOKE. 
And whom for Mutton, and Kid?  CHILD. 
A fine laced Mutton,  
Or two; and either has her frisking Husband:  
That reads her the corantoes, every week.  
Grave Mr Ambler, News-master of Paul's,  
Supplies your Capon; and grown Captain Buz  
(His Emissary) underwrites for Turkey,  
A Gentleman of the Forest presents Pheasant,  
And a plump poulterer's wife, in grace's street,  
Plays Hen with eggs i'the belly, or a coney,  
Choose which you will.  COOKE. 
But, where's the Bacon, Thom?  CHILD. 
Hogrel the Butcher, and the Sow his wife,  
Are both there.  COOKE. 
It is well, go, dish 'em out.  
Are they well boiled?  CHILD. 
Podrida!  POET. 
What's that? rotten?  COOKE. 
O, that they must be. There's one main ingredient  
We have forgot, the Artichoke.  CHILD. 
No Sir.  
I have a fruiterer, with a cold red nose,  
Like a blue fig, performs it.  COOKE. 
The fruit looks so.  
Good child, go pour hem out, show their concoction.  
They must be rotten boiled, 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  
Be yours, yet, envy not the Child his art.  POET. 
Not I. Nam lusis ipse Triumphus amat.  
The antimasque is danced by the persons described, coming out of the pot.  POET. 
Well, now, expect the Scene itself; it opens!  
The Island is discovered, the Masquers sitting in their several sieges. The heavens opening, and Apollo, with Mercury, some Muses, & the Goddess Harmony, make the music. the while, the Island moves forward, Proteus sitting below, and APOLLO sings.  Song. APOLLO. 
Look forth, the (h) Shepherd of the seas, 
●teus ●maris. ●tunus, artubus 〈◊〉   
And (i) 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.  CHORUS. 
And be it thought no common Cause,  
That, to it, so much wonder draws,  
And all the heaven's consent,  
With HARMONY, to tune their notes,  
In answer to the public votes  
That, for it, up were sent.  
It was no envious Stepdame'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 
k The 〈◊〉 navigate with St● Aristid. and Fair Corinth● whence● proverb frequent the Gre● {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}, Sarone magis nauticus.  Saron; come forth, and go up singing to the State, while the Masquers take time to Land.  Song. PROTHEVS. 
I! now the Pomp of Neptune's triumph shines!  
And all the glories of his great designs  
Are read, reflected, in his son's return!  PORTUNUS. 
How all the eyes, the looks, the hearts here, burn  
at his arrival!  SARON. 
These are the true fires,  
Are made of joys!  PROTEUS. 
Of longings!  PORTUNUS. 
Of desires!  SARON. 
Of hopes!  PROTEUS. 
Of fears!  PORTUNUS. 
Not intermitted blocks.  SARON. 
But pure affections, and from odorous stocks!  CHORUS. 
'tis incense all, that flames!  
And these materials scarce have names!  PROTEUS. 
My King looks higher, as he scorned the wars  
Of winds, and with his trident touched the stars.  
There is no wrinkle, in his brow, or frown,  
But, as his cares he would in nectar drown, 
Epithete●nt in 〈◊〉, and of given am to 〈◊〉 Panope, 〈◊〉 &c. 〈◊〉   
And all the (l) silver-footed Nymphs were dressed,  
To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast.  PORTUNUS. 
Or, here in rows upon the banks were set,  
And had their several hairs made into net  
To catch the youths in, as they come on shore.  SARON. 
How! Galatea sighing! O, no more.  
Banish your fears.  PORTUNUS, 
And Doris dry your tears.  
Albion is come:  PORTEUS. 
And (m) Haliclyon, too, 
●ari incly●●renoumd a.) Another Neptunes at●●tes, and 〈◊〉 to the 〈◊〉 person 〈◊〉 Hippius.   
That kept his side, as he was charged to do,  
With wonder.  SARON. 
— And the sirens have him not.  PORTUNUS. 
Though they no practice, nor no arts forgot  
That might have won him, or by charm, or song.  PROTEUS. 
Or laying forth their tresses all along  
Upon the glassy waves;  PORTUNUS. 
Then diving:  PROTEUS. 
Then,  
Up with their heads, as they were mad of men.  SARON. 
And there, the highest-going billows crown,  
Until some lusty Sea-god pulled them down,  CHORUS. 
See! He is here!  PROTEUS. 
Great Master of the main,  
Receive thy dear, and precious pawn again.  CHORUS. 
SAKON, PORTUNUS, PROTEUS bring him thus,  
Safe, as thy subjects' wishes gave him us:  
And of thy glorious Triumph let it be  
No loss a part, that thou their love's dost see,  
Then, that his sacred head's returned to thet.  
This sung, the Island goes back, whilst the upper Chorus takes it from them, and the Masquers prepare for their figure.  CHORUS. 
Spring all the Graces of the age,  
And all the Loves of time;  
Bring all the pleasures of the stage,  
And relishes of rhyme:  
Add all the softnesses of Courts  
The locks, the laughters, and the sports.  
And mingle all their sweets, and salts,  
That none may say, the Triumph halts.  
Here, the Masquers dance their Entry.  
Which done, the first prospective of a maritime Palace, or the house of Oceanus is discovered, with loud Music.  
And the other above is no more seen.  POET. 
Behold the Palace of Oceanus!  
Hail Reverend structure! Boast no more to us  
Thy being able, all the Gods to feast;  
We have seen enough: our Albion was thy guest.  
Then follows the Main Dance.  
After which the second prospect of the sea, is shown, to the former Music.  POET. 
Now turn and view the wonders of the deep,  
Where Proteus herds, and Neptune's orks do keep,  
Where all is ploughed, yet still the pasture green  
The ways are found, and yet no path is seen,  
There Proteus, Portunus, Saron, go up to the Ladies with this Song.  PROTEUS. 
Come noble Nymphs, and do not hide  
The joys, for which you so provide:  SARON. 
If not to mingle with the men,  
What do you here? Go home again.  PORTUNUS. 
Your dressings do confess  
By what we see so curious parts  
Of Pallas, and Arachne's arts,  
That you could mean no less.  PROTEUS. 
Why do you were the Silkworms toils;  
Or glory in the shellfish spoils?  
Or strive to show the grains of ore  
That you have gathered on the shore,  
Whereof to make a stock  
To graft the greener Emerald on  
Or any better-watered stone?  SARON. 
Or Ruby of the rock?  PROTEUS. 
Why do you smell of Ambergris,  
Of which was formed Neptune's Niece,  
The Queen of Love; unless you can  
Like Seaborn Venus love a man?  SARON. 
Try, put yourselves unto't.  CHORUS. 
Your looks your smiles, and thoughts that meet,  
Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,  
do promise you will do't.  
The Revels follow.  
Which ended, the Fleet is discovered, while the three Cornets play.  POET. 
'Tis time, your eyes should be refreshed at length  
Which something new, a part of Neptune's strength  
See, yond, his fleet, ready to go, or come,  
Or fetch the riches of the Ocean home,  
So to secure him both in peace, and wars,  
Till not one ship alone, but all be stars.  
A shout within follows.  
After which the Cook enters.  COOKE. 
I have another service far you, Brother Poet, a dish of pickled Sailors, fine salt sea-boys, shall relish like Anchoves, or Caviar, to draw down a cup of nectar, in the skirts of a night.  SAYLORS. 
Come away boys, the Town is ours, hay for Neptune, and our young Master.  POET. 
He knows the Compass and the Card,  
While Castor sits on the main yard,  
And Pollux too, to help your sails;  
And bright Leucothoe, fills your sails:  
Arion sings, the Dolphins swim,  
And, all the way, to gaze on him.  
The Antimasque of Sailors.  
The last Song to the whole Music, five Lutes, three Cornets, and ten voices.  Song. PROTEUS. 
Although we wish the Triumph still might last  
For such a Prince, and his discovery past,  
Yet now, great Lord of waters, and of Isles,  
Give Proteus leave to turn unto his wiles:  PORTUNUS. 
And, whilst young Albion doth thy labours ease,  
Dispatch Portunus to thy ports,  SARON. 
And Saron to thy Seas:  
To meet old Nereus, with his fifty girls,  
From aged Indus laden home with pearls,  
And orient gums, to burn unto thy name.  CHORUS. 
And may thy subjects' hearts be all on flame:  
Whilst thou dost keep the earth in firm estate,  
And, 'mongst the winds, dost suffer no debate.  
But both at sea, and land, our powers increase,  
With health, and all the golden gifts of peace.  
The last Dance.  
The end.