THE CHRISTMAS ORDINARY, A Private Show; Wherein is expressed the JOVIAL FREEDOM of that Festival.

As it was Acted at a Gentleman's House among other REVELS.

By W. R. Master of Arts.

Nill Lascivius est Carisiano;
Saturualibus ambulat Togatus.
Mart. lib. 6. Epigr. 22.

LONDON, Printed for James Courtney, at the Golden Horse-shoe, on Saffron Hill, 1682.

THE PREFACE.

AS the Stages of our Theaters, so that of the World too, is throng'd with Comedy; and the Representations of Mirth have been of late so numerous, that the whole Ʋniverse ere long will be a Vatican of Play-Books. And indeed 'tis no wonder they swarm so, seeing whatso­ever is Acted within Doors, is immediately expos'd to veiw without, and the Play-Houses in London are but as it were the Tireing Rooms to the Thea­tre or Cirque of Nature. Every Book sellers Shop now is a Duke's House, and presents us with a Play; and almost every Street (like a Salisbury Court) Exhibits Scenes for Pleasure, and Diversion. The Boxes and Pit have been as much Tormented with the noise of Farce, and Fable, as Fronto's Plane-Trees, with the tedious Repetitions of Hoarse Po­ets; Juven. Satyr. 1. and as his Marbles burst through the severe Infliction of too much Poetry: So these have underwent their Fate, cracking al­most under the Pennance of clamorous Buffonry. So that now we have such variety of Humors to tickle our Spleens, and such mighty Helps for the promote­ing of Laughter, that I cannot conceive how the [Page]World can be Sad again. And indeed, that it may never sit Pensive in the shades of Melancholy, nor sink into Languors through excessive Sorrow, I make bold to present it with a Particle of Apollo, a Glympse of Phaebus, a Beam of Wit, and Elo­quence, to chase away Night from Clowdy Brows; here is a Dose of Cordials, some Distillations of He­licon to cheer up, and revive all Drooping Spi­rits.

'Tis the First-Born of a young Academick Head, which since hath been Deliver'd of most excellent Productions. It hath lain Dormant almost half an Age, and hath only crawl'd out in Manuscript into some few hands; who likeing the Entertainment they found in it, thought it too good a Morsel to be Devour'd by Moths, but suppos'd it a fitter Bit to feed some Book seller, and therefore wisht it might rather be advanc'd to the Clutches of the one, than miserably be condemn'd to the grinders of the other.

Here are as Ingenious Passages, and as Humo­rous Conceits, and as Lively Descriptions, as any occurs in the most celebrated Dramatick. But if these Beautiful Charms will not in the least allure the Reader, then let the Deformity of the Shape in­vite and draw him; for 'tis neither exact Comedy, Farce, or Tragedy, but a spatch'd Chimaera; that [Page]hath somewhat of every one, and the Spirit, Flame, Elixir of them all. 'Tis a Monster in Learning, as great as any that occurrs in Nature, and if men will not read it for its Ingenuity, yet I hope they will come see it, as a Prodigy, and so gratifie their Curiosity, if not please their Fancy.

W. R.

The SCENE Ʋbivis.

The Time from Christmass till Twelfth-night.

Dramatis Personae.

  • Mr. Make Peace, A Countrey-Justice.
  • Astrophil, An Astronomer, his Son.
  • Humphry, The Justice's Man.
  • Drink-Fight, A Jovial Souldier.
  • Austin. An Hermit.
  • Shab-Quack, A poor Chyrurgeon.
  • Roger. An Apprentice to Shab-Quack.
  • Win-all, An Host of an Ordinary.

An Inducted Show.

  • Apollo.
  • Terra.
  • Ver.
  • AEstas.
  • Autumnus.
  • Hyems.

THE ARGUMENT.

ROGER escaping from his Master Shab-Quack, at Christmass Time, me is with Drink-fight, and joyns with him in a Knot of Merriment: They also inveigle the Hermit and Astrophil. Mr. Make-peace be­ing pensive at his Son's Departure, sends Humphry to enquire him out, who, in the Disguise of a Traveller, finds them frolick­ing at an Ordinary; who insinuates himself into their Mirth: Afterwards, with false Dice, cheats them, and escapes. They afterwards, wrangling about the Reckoning, beat their Host, who summons them all before the Ju­stice, and runs to Shab-Quack for Cure. Mr. Make-peace perceiving his Son Astrophil amongst them, joyfully entertains him and the rest. Shab-Quack pardons his Servant's Christmals Merriment, and the Hermit, in a jolly Humor, is bound Apprentiee to the Host.

THE PROLOGUE.

WE need not sift our Audience, since we may,
In each Man's Looks read an artic'late Play.
Acted in mirthful Glances from our Stage;
We bar those Histrio-masticks of the Age:
For what's here worth their Envy? Whose grim Star,
More sourly snarles than AEsop's Picture far.
Who wear such Vin'gar Faces, and swoln Spite,
That the Spectators might be made the Sight.
This to the Cynick Spies
Since all then would seem candid, let none use
Satyrick Rods to such a Cradle Muse.
She's your Camelion, and the Air strikes dead,
Or keeps alive; she by your Smiles is fed.
Expect not then those Men's high fancied Streins,
Where Wit is the Complexion of their Brains;
Whose Words so strain'd from Dross, so purely plac't,
As if they were not only rank'd but cast,
Alas, 'tis hard to fit the Palate, where
'Tis plac't i'th Eye, and Taste dwells in the Ear.
But if our Infant-Cook shall please your nice
Judgment with Messes, which your Breath must spice,
We'll joy our Ordinary with such Resort,
Will both be made a College, and a Court.

The Christmass Ordinary.

Enter Drink-Fight and Roger, at several Doors.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Drink-Fight.

WEll met my brave Roger! Thou wandering Shop of Surgery! Thou Aesculapius or Common-Wealth of Physitians, that hath engrost the Monopoly of Cures! How fares thy Master Shab-Quack?

Roger.

Faith (Captain,) he lives like an Horse-Leech upon other Folks Blood, and his best Setting up is, when his Custo­mers break their Legs, or their Pates, and then he is the exact Emblem of Envy, or a bad Officer: for he grows Fat by his Neighbours Crosses, and scrapes up Wealth by Corruption. I and my Master are like to City-Scavangers; for whilst he is the Broom still cleansing their Wounds, it is my Trade always to cleanse their Pockets. The last Redemption he practic'd was up­on your Pinnace, when the French-Fowling-Peice, charg'd with Stone Bullets, shot you through the Mediterranean, till your Gun-Room sprang a Leak, and your Pump ran blood like a knock'd Marrow-bone; but ever since, he hath lain moulding at home, like the rusty Spits in Lent, clean out of service. He hath been a Fortnight in Commons with the Rats, and hath scarce had main­tenance to keep him from Dining upon his own Lice: But let those Sores and Plaisters go with a Pox to 'em; I'll feed no more on other mens Cuttings, nor live a tame Cannibal upon Man's Flesh. I'll walk more Free than the unlimitted Air, more Licentious, than the Dutch Marriners in a Pillage. I hate all Vo­cations, but calling for Liquor, and I scorn to be over-rul'd by any Body, but Strong-Drink.

Drink-Fight.

Why then thou art an Acute Rascal—

Roger.

Faith (Sir!) I think I am; Rogue, and Rascal are my [Page 2]Right Worshipful Surnames, and to deserve these Titles of Note, is the Ambition of my Profession.

Drink-Fight.

Then let's join (my Acromatical Villain!) that the History of Roguery may stuff up Chronicles, and be thought too monstrous a Subject for Tragedy, that hereafter we may be Sainted for unimitable Villanies. I that heretofore have danc't Anticks up to the Chin in an Occan of Blood, when the Vesuvi­us of my Throat (like Phlegeton) belch'd out nothing but Flame, and Thunder-bolts; and the Skirmish hath been so hot, that I liv'd like a Salamander in the Fire: I have Winter'd e're now Three Months in a Coat of Ice, instead of Armour, and been fed with nothing but the North-wind temperately Fann'd by the warm blast of Fame. I have lain down a Man, and have rose up a Snow-ball. My Belly hath had as many holes-bor'd in it as the Danaid's Tub; so that I have been fain to tie up my Breeches with my Heart-strings, and twine my Guts about my Wrist, like a rowl of Match. But I have since forbore all bloody Pates, but the bleeding of Claret Hogs-heads; all Weapons go against my Sto­mach, but Fry'd Pikes, and Sword-Fish; the Mettal of my Dag­ger is Metamorphoz'd into jingling Spurs, but the brazen Hilt flew in my face. My Tent is become an Ordinary, where my Buff-Jacket is converted into Leathern Jacks, and my Armour is coin'd into Pewter-Wine-Pots. I have been lately reputed a most re­nowned Cheater, and indeed I borrow'd that Art of a certain Ci­ty-Major, who was properly married to his Trade; for his Wives Petty-coat was his best Warehouse; whence he grew to be the Frontis-peice of the Town; for the Ford he maintain'd in his Cellar, and the Ox in his Head. But come my Sublimated Alchi­my of madness; Let's pursue our Speculations, and whom we find Heretical against our Ordinary, we'll either convert him to our Orthodoxal Apostacy, or send him to Purgatory to do Pen­nance for being sober at Christmass.

SCENE II.

Enter Astrophil solus, as waking out of Sleep, with a Globe by him.
Astrophil.

Two Bunches of Stars rode by without my leave; [Page 3]they are Traitors to our Crown; they should have askt a Ticket for their Pass. Yonders a Cloud sick with a Timpany, 'tis now deliver'd. Apollo with Sagitta fleadg'd with Phaenix Feathers, shot through Iris Bow, and slew the Python Miracles! The Planets are all in a Combustion, and the Constellations are turn'd Luna­tics. What is it Holy Day in Heaven? See! the gods are drunk with Nectar, and the Stars which enjoy continual Wakes, are now join'd in a Morrice Dance; sometimes Stationary, some Retro­grade, whilst the Harmony of the Spheres make up the consort. Look yonder are Caprae Saltantes skipping a Jig, and Lyra plays to 'em. Arctophylax hath put a Ring in the Nose of Ʋrsa Major, and leads him about, whilst he Dances the Bears mask. Sure the Heavens keep open House, for Castor and Pollux are drinking a Syl­libub, in via Lactea, and Vindemiatrix pledges them in Crater. Yonder Cephus hath gotten the Arctick Pole for a Fishing Rod, ty'd to the Meridian Line, and is Angling for Piscer; Crux, Pavo, and Columba are a roasting by an Ignis Fatuus, and a Surloin of Taurus is Dressing, whilst Virgo turns the Spit. They dare not but in­vite me to their Gawdys. 'Tis good being in Heaven at this time a Year. Well! I must consult the Lady Cassiopeia, concerning the Revels; for she hath sate contemplating in her Judgment Seat, with a Parliament of Stars, and Libra hath been all this while weighing the matter.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Enter Austin, running before Drink-Fight, and Roger.
Drink-Fight.

Wilt thou still Pilgrimize thus mutely, like a Travelling Sign-post, and be gaz'd at as an Owl at Noon-day, till the School Boys Martyr Thee with Snow Balls and Rotten Egs? Was Nature out of Breath when she made Thee, that she gave Thee no more Spirit? Or had Prometheus no fire left, when Thou wert fram'd, and so thy Soul was made of some dying Snuff? Well! either drench thy self from this sober Madness, or like Me­dusa's head, I'll look Thee to a Stone Bottle.

Austin.

Legions, Legions of Evil Spirits, ascending and de­scending in the Air!

Roger.
[Page 4]

Nay, We'll Anatomize Thee alive, then screw out thy Bones, and make Tabacco Pipes of 'em; thy Skull we'll turn into a Sack Bowl; thy Flesh we'll mangle to make Mince Pies of, for Cerberus, but thy Cave shall be turn'd into a Bawdy House, with the Sign of the Elephant hung out.

Drink-Fight.

Ha, Ha, Hey!

Austin.

Cursed be ye that persecute the Innocent and Harm­less!

Roger.

Are you still Canting o're those high-way Phrases of Religion? nay, never flie, we'll be everlasting Duns to bait Thee.

Drink-Fight.

And haunt thy side more inseperably, than thy E­vil Genius.

[Exeun.

SCENE IV.

Enter Mr. Make-peace and Humphry attending him.
Mr. Make-peace.

Go Humphry put my Son out of his Melancho­ly Element, or else he'll study himself to Whit-Leather. O this Astrophil doth so Banquet me with joy, that I am almost cloy'd with my Felicity, and I grow hoarse in Gratulatory Praises. He is such a Son, whom the Creation worships; the Map, or Com­mon Place Book of the gods; the Arch Register of Heavens Star-Chamber. To me he is a mere Dictionary of hard words, and confounds me with new Plantations in the Planets. He can tell who made the Moon first a Cuckoldess, and gave her Horns, and hath extracted a Quintessence to cure the Orbs of their Vertigo, and their Palsie of Trepidation. He hath invented a Magical Spell will fright the Sun from his Coach Box, and can toss the Earth up and down like a Foot Ball. He told me that Jupiter's Larder stood wide open, and promis'd me a mess of Constellations for my Breakfall. He saith, He'll pluck the wings of Time, and make me a Feather Bed, and my House shall be pav'd with a Quarry of Thunder Bolts. I am Grandsir to some Four and Twenty Folio's of his Issue already. He means to people whole Libraries with his Families, and there hang 'em in Chains to Immortality.

Humphry.

Sir, I have been more narrowly Inqulisitive, than [Page 5]Revenge, or Frantick Jealousie. I left ne're a Cranny, or Eye­let-hole unsearch'd, as if I had sought a dead Fly, or an Em­mets Eg. There's ne're a pair of Snuffers, or Inkhorn in the House but I have examin'd, and half worn out, with often turning of them. But there was no man living there. Sir! my young Ma­ster is departed.

Mr. Make-peace.

How? departed? why he cannot die, the trembling Fates are afraid of him, least he should prove their Destiny, and Death himself pays Fine to him for a Lease of his Dominion.

Humphry.

Sir! He is not to be found.

Mr. Make peace.

What? not in his Study? thou liest, and yet 'tis true, [aside] Go call in Astrophil, or—what dost thou answer me? go seek him speedily—where wilt thou run?—wilt thou go before thou knowst whether? And I cannot direct thee. Flie swiftly every where, and recover him quickly, or I shall not have a dram of Peace, and Justice.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Enter Dring-Fight with a Pot and Cup, Astrophil, Austin, and Roger with their Cups.
Drink-Fight to Astrophil.

Were it not braver still to bathe thy Spirits in warm streams of Nepenthe, than to stew thy self up in a Fur'd Gown, and melt away thy Soul like a Watch Can­dle? Away with those Fume Bibbers, that drink nothing but night Air, and Lamp Smoke! Here's a Liquor will glaze your Face, till it shine like the Man i'th' Moon! O! 'twill create such an Intelligence in the Brain-Sphere, that 'twill make the Orb of the Head run round like the Primum Mobile.

Astrophil.

These Caelestial Riddles in this are moraliz'd, and I am become your Convert, I will hereafter be Diametrically oppos'd to all Sobriety. My Courses shall be more crooked, than the Eclyptick Line, and I will rest a continual Inhabitant in the Tor­rid Zone of Canary. Hang the Constellations in the Belt of the Zodiack, we'll have more variety of Delights in one Hour, than the Moon hath changes in one Year, or than Iris wears Colors in [Page 6]her multiform Girdle. Oh thou Alpha of all Sciences, and Center of all Perfections! A Quire of Planets make up that one Pate: Thou hast more Vertues in thee, than there are Scruples in a Major Circle. Let's embrace like Gemini.

Roger.

Come Hermit, refine thy self from the obtuse Idiotisms of Honesty; be drunk, and turn mad man, and thou mayest be saved yet.

Austin.

Before this Lecture, I had no more Wit in me, than a Face painted upon a Stone Jug: Such a Grotian, that Apuleius his Ass was a grand Sophy to me. I was as silly, as if I fed upon nothing but Woodcocks Brains; but I am transubstantiated, and my Soul is become all Wild Fire. From henceforth, I'll live the Comedy of the Age. My Life shall be a continual Bac­chanal, and the spungy Dutchmen compar'd to me, shall go for sober Cato's.

Drink-Fight.

Now then to give you a Taste, or Sip of your Happiness, why this Drink is a pure Elixir, the true Aqua vitae, 'tis the only Step and Degree of Reputation: For it will make you Blades of great Account in other mens Books: 'Tis Liquor. It is a very Idol: For it makes all men fall down to it. Drunk­enness is a Catalogue of all the Faculties. Do you desire Phy­sick, here's then the Antimonial Cup, that cures all Diseases; the Potion that will still keep you in Health. If you study the Law, this is the mere Midwife of Justice: For it brings forth all; and if perhaps it receives too much, it will purge it self clearly, by Mouth, and restore it again with Usury: And pray, where will you look for a College of great Divines, but where there is a good Fellowship? Away then with these Hydro-potists! Those Anathematists to all Jollity: Let them empty Wells with Cleanthes Backet. Here's Drink will make you deliver your mind in a Flood of Expressions, and spew like Homer: and 'tis therefore called Double Beer, because it doubles your Capacity, and makes you speak and see every thing double. What's the reason then that Fishes are so dumb? 'Tis because they drink no­thing but Water; and no marvel, if Tantalus thirst in the midst of a River, when he stands up to the Chin in Tiff and Tap-lash, whilst one Bowl of this Nectar would make him account his Hell a Paradise.

Roger.
[Page 7]

Then let us be jovial, my sturdy Antipodes, my vigi­lant Student of the Wine-Tub. There's no such Sanity, as to be sick with the Staggers, and the sweetest Life is to be dead drunk.

Austin.

I will never more be sober, till the Devil turns Tap­ster. Bring me hither the famous Borussian Bottle of a thousand, and five Ells long, or the Barrell at Heidelberg, that I may set my Nose to the Bung, and suck it dry. Haustic [...]s, for a Deluge of Strong Beer, that I might begin it all supernaculum to my A­cademical Captain.

Astrophil.

Methinks the Constellation of Eridanus were but a Draught, and I could sup up whole Helicon in a Breath ex tem­pore: Sure I could drink more than Apollo after a Shower.

Drink-Fight.

But my Frolick Associates, before you be Regist­er'd into our Rubrick, I must charge you with these four Canons. First, That no man dare to talk wisely, or to talk Sence. Next, that neither of you presume to commit the gross Indignity of sleeping above twice a Fortnight. Thirdly, That you refuse no Cups, but Poculum Charitatis, which you must always excommunicate and banish the Society: And Lastly, That you pay no Reckon­ings: For 'tis a disparagement to your Credit not to be trusted; but still swear the Host out of his Faith. Hence therefore, it will be expedient, to furnish your selves with a Volly of Oaths, to discharge upon all Assaults. Now there be mincing Oaths, for the City, courageous-Oaths for the Court, and Hob nail Oaths, for the Country: There be Cudgel-Oaths, to break a Creditor's Pate, Rapier-Oaths, to run a Serjeant through with, and Back­sword-Oaths, to cross an Ale-house Score. I have a rich Mint of them, you shall have them stamp'd of the latest Edition and Coining.

Astrophil.

Would I had as many Ears as Autumn, to drink in your Fluent Precepts.

Austin.

I'll be no more mindful of these same Statutes, than an hungry Scholar is of a Feast, or a young Heir of his Day of one and twenty.

Drink-fight.
[Page 8]

Enter 'em both.

[Drink-Fight fills the Cup, and they both drink all.
Astrophil.

What must I kiss the Cup?

Roger.

No, you must swear deeply: This is a Cup of Lethe, that will make you forget the hainous Solaecism of Temperance; hey brave, soaking Cavaleero's, here's Austin hath it ad unguem already.

Drink-Fight.

Now my free Comrades, that our Mirth may not halt, but stream along with full Measure, I have here pro­cured a roaring Carrol, nam'd The Tripple Invitation, of the Tap­ster, Alewife and Drawer, to their several Liquors.

Tapster.
Beer leave to the Barrel,
And broach no Quarrel;
Let all your drawn Anger be spilt:
Here's a Bowl to the Brim,
Will make your Tongue swim,
And your Jollity run a Tilt.
(2.)
The Spigot which flows
From the tap of the Nose.
Kindles Bonefires in the Head.
'Tis the Midwife Man,
To the Knights of the Can;
For't speedily brings 'em to Bed.
Alewife.
Where Red Lettice doth shine,
'Tis an outward Sign,
Good Ale is a Traffick within:
It will drown your Woe,
And thaw the old Snow,
That grows on a frosty Chin.
(2.)
Here's against a Storm,
Lamb's Wooll to keep warm,
And the Lips of the bonny shee Host.
Your Cup do not scorn,
'Tis a Cuckold's Horn,
Your Sawce is a Nutmeg Tost,
Drawer.
But hither come rush,
Ye Birds of the Bush.
Compose all Strifes in a Jar:
If it be not enough,
Then take it in Snuff,
We'll answer it straight at the Bar.
(2.)
Would ye reel to a Wench?
Here's the ruddy French;
And least you should want Language to speak,
Canary from Spain,
Shall advance your Brain,
And your very Wine shall be Greek.
Corollary or Assent.
Hang Sider and Perry,
With Beer, Ale and Sherry,
Let's wash away muddy Cares;
We'll trowl the Bowl quicker;
Then sing till our Liquor,
Be rarified into Airs.
Onmes— Wee'll trowl, &c.
Drink-Fight.

Come away, my rare Canary Birds, there's no such Musick as in a Tobaccopipe, and the sweetest Instrument is a Sackbut.

SCENE VI.

Enter Win-all, the Host, solus.
Win-all.

Here's a Mess of Roarers within my Hall, are able to swallow up a Red Sea of Claret, and never belch at it. Their Canon Throats, if they were in the Cellar, would make an Earthquake. There's a gilded Captain, is a mere embroider'd Beggar, the Seignior Decoy of the City, that lives by seducing wild Ducklings; he's a most entire Coward; but I cannot blame him for being in the Gentleman's Fashion: He'll swoon at the sight of a cut Finger: The Flash of a Touch-Hole, will make him fly the Realm. I am not ignorant how many Ordinaries have lain upon their Death Beds, and how many Alehouses have given up the Ghost, by his frequenting: They count us the mere Scum and Chippings of the Town, the Parenthesis, or Apochrypha of the Commonwealth: But they shall find, we are Men of greater Reckoning than they, when they come to our Bills.

A Bill.

Inprimis, For the Ale and lofty Beer, served out in Firkins: Sack in full Career, did flow in a Spring Tide; next I did bring five Ells of Rope Tobacco in a String.

Item, Three Ranks of Pipes destroyed: Nay, more; besides, of broken Glasses, some threescore.

Item, My own sweet Company, and the Set of Salted Jeers, besides three Dishes of Wit: Next, my Wive's wanton Kisses, and soft Knee.

Item, A Sallad of her Bawdery.

Item, For Noise and Stamping I'll be paid.

Item, Four times Conjunction with my Maid.

Nay, ye shall pay for all, for room and seat,
And every Custom 'cause you have no Meat.
I have an Army of more things to put in,
I know not where to end, where to begin.
[Page 11]

Well, I'll go in, and try whether the odd Rundlet of Cana­ry be yet in Consumption or no—

SCENE VII.

Enter Drink-fight, Roger, Astrophil, Austin: All with Pipes on their Shoulders, and other Furniture.
Drink-fight.

Now my Martial Volunteers, to instruct you in the military Postures of the Pipe, and to make you proficient Souldiers in the Artillery of Tabacco, Lieutenant, Serjeant, &c. March up in Ranks— Stand— Stoop your Muskets— Draw your Bandileers— Charge your Pieces— Ram your Powder— Prime your Pan— Light your Match— Pre­sent— Give Fire—

Enter Humphry, like a Traveller.
Humphrey.

Under this Cloud I'll walk Gentlemen, pardon my rude Assault: I am a Traveller, who having survey'd most of the Terrestrial Angles in this Globe, am hither arriv'd, to peruse this little Spot.

Drink-fight.

A Traveller? Why, what Mysteries canst thou relate of thy Experience?

Humphry.

I can tell you more than all the creeking Barbers in Europe, than a Swarm of Posts: I am the only Intelligen­cer, and Antiquary of Stories, the Custom House of Relations; as if I had procur'd the Patent or Charter of News. Alas, the Historiographers and Annalists, do lye now a days like Poets, and the Chronicles are turned Parasites. I have seen the Terra Incognita, where the Ladies say their Prayers, and the Courtiers keep their Promises, the Usurers lend Gratis, and the Prodigals build Hospitals: Nay, the very Scriveners wear long Ears, and the Towns-men shorn Foreheads. I could relate what glorious Fools I saw there; but 'tis dange­rous medling with Nobles. I can tell you the precise Number of all the Whipping Posts in Purgatory, and how many pound of Brimstone is spent yearly in Hell, tho' I was never there to see them weigh'd.

Astrophil.
[Page 12]

You discourse like one that have seen the Books of Fate, or read the Sybills Leaves.

Humphry.

Pish! These are but obvious Trifles, I have seen a Legion of wonders, such as would make Fabulous Pliny seem Authentick, and Romes Adulterate Relicks prove Articles.

I saw Jupiter's Nod in a Cob-web Net,
And Saturn's Frown writ in Brass,
With Venus her Kiss in a Ring of Jet,
And Juno's Groan in a Glass:
A stifled Thought in a Bag cloakt up;
With a Sigh that was grey with Age,
Diana's Hem in a Nutshel Cup,
And Apollo's Beam in a Cage.
The Syrrup of Blushes new Distill'd,
The Maiden Head of a Dream,
The Soul of a Smile that was lately Kill'd,
Enamel'd with a Stream.
Roger.

I must applaud your Invention in this, and not your Travel.

Humphry.

Nay, These are not Minerva's of my Brain. Alas my head brings forth no Creatures but Travellers Lice.

Austin.

Why, These exceed all Miracles. Pray, where wert thou Bred?

Humphry.

Faith, every where, I am a living Miscellany of all Customs, and I have lost my self into another Metempychosis. In Barbary I lost my Manners, in Hungary mine Abstinence; my Gentility in Sclavonia; in Spain I made Shipwrack of mine Ho­nesty; in Germany of my Religion; in France my Nose was in more danger, than in Russia and Greenland Frost. In my Journy through Ʋtopia, I met with a Companion, that wore a Lecture of Arts in his Habit; his thick Hat was a dull Problem; or a great deal of matter in a short cut; his Face was a Greek Criti­cisme full of Meanders, and Intricacies; his Pate a Paradox, con­trary to all the Nation; his Breeches are exact Character, for they were so close, that they displai'd every part of him, and his Doublet a plain Anatomy, nothing but Cuts and Slashes. This [Page 13]same stranger was the very Aristotle of all Poets, for he could ex­press Five kind of Poems in an Instant, without the help of Pen or Ink. He could speak forth a fluent Epigram; he could weep forth a Doleful Elegy; he could finger out a Mirthfull Lyric; he could grin out a biteing Satyr, and tread forth a stalking Heroic in spondee Feet; not many Degrees from this Horizon, I happen'd on a Diminutive Man, whom I Limb'd out in this Paper. Hearken, and you shall see him.

A Dwarf.
Behold his Portraicture! whom you'll suppose
In Rime a Pigmy, or a Dwarf in Prose;
A Coppy of Natures short-hand, and who can
Without a Metaphor be call'd a Span.
If man be but a little World; then he
Was the Analysis of an Epitome.
A sheet of Paper would, tho it were broke,
Make him an English Jesuits long Cloak.
His Beard face his Doublet, just for space,
And length, 'twas like some Puritans long Grace.
His Nose would bear no jest, his Cabbage Pate
Was sure too big to enter Heavens strait Gate.
His Ears, and Shoulders kiss'd, his Waste did shun
All Smiles b'ing swoln beyond Ben-John-Sons Tun.
His Legs like Bag-Pipes, which a natural Gout
Has blown at least some 13 Inchabout.
But if I could his little Feet rehearse,
They were too short to make a Foot in Verse.
Well! I will say no more, least I should name,
A Pigmy's Picture in a Giants Frame.
Drink-Fight.

A pretty patcel of Wit, I Faith, come, we'll en­ter into our Society immediately.

Humphry.

Stay! Let us expect a while; It is reported that there was a Christmass show to be presented at the next House, of the Four parts of the Year, contending for Priority. Let us not omit any Satisfaction, either of Mirth or Novelty. Look! [Page 14] Apollo the Moderator is enter'd, and Terra doth induct the rest.

Enter first Apollo, then Terra leads in the Four Parts of the Year, viz. Ver, Aestas, Autumnus, and Hyems.
Terra.
Can such a Combat find a Scene? can yee
Spectators stand at the Worlds Tragedy?
When Atlas Heavens great Porter fears the Fall
Of his Burden at Times Funeral.
The groaning Globe in Labor now lies sick,
And the whole Orb is turn'd Peripatetick.
Both Poles do crack his Frame, e're while so safe,
Ballanc'd now sinks into its Epitaph.
The Parts o'th' Year raise Civil Wars, and Thirst
For vain Supremacy, who shall prove first.
§.
How will Astronomers startle, and mistake
The Months, at the Birth of this New Almanack!
When frozen July shall be starv'd, and Dry
December in a Burning Feaver lie.
But thou great Monarch calm their Stormy Pride,
Before it swell into a Factious Tide.
He Builds that keeps from Ruin, who so States
This wild Sedition, he again Creates.
Ver.
What use of Pleading is there, when we see
The chiming Birds in Natures Heraldry
Blazing my Argent Feild? each vocal stream
By me made both the Grater, and the Theme.
Look on the Years Virginity, and see
How Flort struts in her new Tapostry;
Deck't in her Parl'ment Robes, and Richest Mold,
A Native Mint shines in each Marygold.
Behold the Earth made Paradise! below
A Constellation doth of Roses grow.
Whose Clouds of Violets wave, whose annual Spice
Offers an Everlasting Sacrifice.
Mantles of Pinks (like Rain-Bows) do display
Their Beams, and Lillies make a Milky way.
And that my Palace may true Heaven be said,
Harvestst of gods here are not made, but bred.
I am the Nurse of Health, and Queen of sport,
Each Goddess Nymph's but Hand-maid to my Court.
I dress the Fowl in Marriage Cloths, and Wed
The Nuptial Birds, and strait bring them to Bed.
And when the Captive Earth in Pennance stands
Clad in a Sheet of Snow, I lose their Bands.
Yet though I ransome them from Chains, and do
Repreive their Thrall, I'll still be bound to you.
Summer.
Dare you descend in Combat, when each Field
Is up in Arms and Ranks of Pik's doth yeild,
Like a wild Porcupine? But know instead,
That Words have Edges, and Tongues are Swords indeed.
Each Furrow gapes, and saith the golden Fee
Of Venus Beauty, was stoln from one Tree,
And the Herculean Apples, the Orator Towrs,
His Rhetorick Nose-gays, borrow'd from my Flowrs.
Wer't not for Allegories made from me, pray whence
Would Poets Rime, or School Boys have their sense?
I warm the stupid Air, should I withhold
My Heat, even Heavens Kitching would grow cold.
See how th' Adopted Boughs are Thatch'd, whose Maine
By Phaebus curling Irons are Crisp'd again.
And by the Cutwork, which from thence is made,
Checkers the ground, through Twilight of a shade.
The Surplic'd Swans, new ravishing Tunes indite,
Doctors of Musick in their Robes of White.
O would that Phaeton rul'd this Radiant Sphere,
That we might have a Summer all the Year.
When I'd be Empress, when I take the Foil,
May all the Earth be made one Fun'ral Pile.
Autumn.
'Tis time for Conquest, Victory should sue
For place, not be invited when 'tis due;
For these are but my Tenants, who thereby
Enrich'd, pay Tribute to my Treasurie.
I keep the Keys o'th' great Exchequer, whence
Nature is furnish'd for her Years Expence.
I die the Grapes in Purple blushes still.
My Vintage doth Jove's azure Wine-Tub fill.
In vain the Spring doth smile, and Summer Crown
The Earth, since I can blast it with one frown.
If once I Rage, a Camp of Winds would split
The whole Creation with an Ague Fit.
And bandy Towers into th' Air, untill
They from their Stories fall to Chronicle.
Walls sleep without their Bed-staves, and each Bell
Struck Dumb with Noise, doth ring out its own Knell.
Then let him private stand, who pleas'd can make
The World all Faint, but being anger'd Quake.
I raise such Floods, till Cities swim in Barks,
And floating Churches are become true Arks.
Winter.
What? hath the cold of Cowardice so froze
My glow-worm Soul, not to be thaw'd by those,
Who only brag of Colors? and whose Vaunt
Boasts in the Trappings of an outside Paint;
Whilst that the Cloven Earth doth gasping lie,
And the Chill Fountains Terra's Dugs drawn dry.
But Vertue is no Bawd, it still hath been
Her modest Grace to keep her Court within.
See! how the Floods with admiration Tam'd,
With wonder stand, in Summer only Lam'd;
And Boreas (Winter Barber) shaves the Trees
By the grave Statute of my Diocese;
Whilst Snowy Juno scatters o're my Stage,
Argent enough to make a Silver Age.
I am the Seminary of Valour, there,
Hectors do scarce contend with Taylors here.
Do but ascend; the loftier you stray,
The nearer Heaven, still the Colder way.
But I am too patient, Words do spend the summ
Of Wrath, since truest Fury still is Dumb.
Apollo.
More Monsters still? or Giants new alive?
Do Broods of Python swarm within my Hive?
Have I so often Kiss'd you with my Lips,
Ʋnmask'd from Clouds? and shin'd without Eclyps.
Was I chose Visitor to o'resee the Year?
That that a real Serpent should appear,
And prove my self a Traytor? have my sacred Fires
Kindled the ambitious Heat of proud Desires?
Is Gratitude quite extinguish'd, and will yee
Prophane my Crown by Civil Blaspemy?
Either Ʋnite your hands, or I'll awake
Egyptian Darkness, or th' old Chaos make.
Wheel in a Circular Course, and let the string
Of Friendship be as endless as the Ring,
That ye may in a round Quadrature be cast,
For in a Globe there's neither first nor last.
[Exit, show in a Circle.
Drink-Fight.

This would have pass'd for an indifferent Masque in Guild-Hall, had it been Hammer'd out by a Company of Joi­ners. But come! Let us retreat! This strong Beer will take Cold, and the Wine will Freeze in the Rundlets. We'll carowse off some frivolous Gallons for a Libamen to Bacchus, then have a Mess of Bones scru'd in, where every man shall try the Dexterity of his Fortune.

SCENE VIII.

Shab-Quack.

Oh! This Peace and good Government make's me sick at heart. 'Tis but a dead time with me, when my Razors have kept Holiday these Two Months. I wish I were a Journey­man in some Port-Town of Batavia, where the Mines are made but Slaughter Houses, and Murder is become a Profession. Here's so much Patience, and Cowardice in England, that starve's up all the poor Chyrurgeons. Were it not for the Valor of Gentlemen against Catch-Poles, and some Pathetical Brethren, that in Zeal dare knock down their Fellows, we might e're this have been all sent to the High-ways and Alms-Houses. Oh! That Christians had but the Charity to be wounded sometimes; for if they were but once suspected of a Cut, I have as many Tricks as a Canker to blister a green Sore; but my Custome is so slender, that I am forc'd to make my Bread of Saw-Dust, and to drink nothing but Pump-water; a Mouse were a Sheriffs Banquet to me, and I Feast upon Spiders, as familiarly as a Mountebank. I had a Pi­geons Egg last Night for Supper, but I was glad to lay up Orts till the next Meal, for fear I should turn Epicure. A Sparrows Carcass would surfeit me, my stomach is so contracted. For my Life hath beene perpetual Good-Friday, nothing but a Fast. I have but two Dogs in mine House and (alas!) they are fain to live like younger Brothers, by their Wits. If my Prentice had continu'd with me till this time, we had been presented to the Physick-School for Skeletons.

[They knock him within.
Enter Win-all, the Host, all Bloody.
Win-all.

Help! Help! Murder! O Mr. Shab-Quack, here's a Kennel of Furies have almost unrafted my head for shewing them the Reckoning. I profer'd them the Total Sum, and they paid me in Fractions; but I'll make 'em know they have peirc'd a wiser Hogshead than their own.

Shab-quack.
[Page 19]

Retire with speed, your Blood begins to curdle to a Jelly.

Exeunt omnes.

SCENE IX.

Enter Drink-fight, Roger, Astrophil, with their Doublets off.
Drink fight.

A Pox of this mangy Traveller, 'twas but an homely Trick of him to shift us this weather, that's the naked Truth on't. 'Slid, how the Rogue hath par'd us 'zars, my mo­ney slid away, as if it had been all Quicksilver.

Roger.

Now could I find in my Heart to cry most devoutly. if my Tears would but congeal to Silver, as the Hebiades did to Amber. I'll even be sick of the Yellow Jaundies, and yet I cannot see any thing of the Color of Gold. Sure Fortune's Wheell stands still: She was never unconstant to me, For I had always Ill Luck. Well, we were predestin'd to be undone. Alas poor Captain!

Drink-fight.

How now Sirrah, how dare you pity me?

Roger.

Indeed my pity should reflect on my self: For I am now the most transcendent Hyperboly of all Misery.

Drink-fight.

Sirrah, thou lyest, I scorn any man should be more miserable than my self.

Astrophil.
(1.)
This Pipe's my Pillar of Clouds,
Such Meteors I love to utter:
More than Welch-men do Cheese,
Or an English-man Ease,
Or a Dutch-man loves Salt Butter.
(2.)
If Riches be but a Smoak,
And Fame be but a Vapor,
Here's a rich Mine indeed,
In this fumy Weed,
And Honor enough in a Taper.

Oh, 'twould e'en make Heraclitus to laugh his Lungs out, to [Page 20]see the Distempers of these two Wretches: He's a Fool that can't win without Joy, or lose without Sorrow.

Drink-fight.

Now do I find my self going into a pure Raskal. I could almost find in my heart to turn valorous, and beat my self for being such an arrant Coxcomb. What now, shall I turn Curate? For there's no Learning required to that, but a lame Arm, and a loud Voice; Or shall I be a Noble-Man's Pan­der? But a Pox on't, there be too many of that Trade already. But let me see, what Religion is now in Fashion? Shall I be a Lay-Divine? For I could counterfeit a compleat Gogle. Pray God I be not honest: For then I am sure to live miserable; but if some body should make me honest in spite of my Teeth, I hope 'tis nor my fault. Well, I'll take care for Honesty be sure: I'll e'n turn Manciple, or Lawyer's Clerk. If Heaven once give over to prosper Knaves why then Fortune hath Eyes.

Roger.

Now will I just make my Will, and then hang my self, or else let out my Soul at a Wicket. The first Legacy I bestow, shall be my former Mirth, which I bequeath to all this Audience: my Madness, to the Commoners of Bedlam Hall: my Stomach, to the Company of the Guard: my Poverty, to a College of Scholars: mine Empty Head, to the Pope's Privy Council: my Hypocrisie, to a Banbury Brother; my Treachery, to a Conspiracy of Jesuits; and my Soul to him that got it.

Enter Win-all, the Host, with two Serjeants.
Win-all.

There the Sheeps-heads creep without their Fleeces, surprize 'em suddenly.

Exeunt omnes running.

SCENE X.

Enter Mr. Make-peace, in a Chair.
Make-peace.

Not yet return'd my Son? Then let me weep my Body dry to Dust, and make this Chair my Coffin.

[Page 21] Enter Win-all and Shab quack, with two Serjeants lead­ing in Astrophil, Drink-fight and Roger.
Win-all.

Sir! I have hither summon'd the Delinquents, and Mr. Shab-quack too, that he might witness how fataily my Skull was batter'd, like a crush'd Egg-shell.

Make-peace.

What Astrophil? I am inform'd again; and whilst thou givest me Life, thou dost requite my Gift of being thy Fa­ther. Methinks there is a young Spring in all my Limbs, my Blood trips Coranto's in my capering Veins.

Astrophil.

Sir! &c.

Make-peace,

Nay, I will not be guilty of the Cruelty, to hear thee entreat: Thy Pardon be as plentiful as my Joy.

Shab-quack.

Roger too return'd! This is a day of Restitution. Rise, I forgive thee thy Extravancy for this good Employment which you have sent me: It prov'd the best Service that you perform'd.

Enter Humphry, with all their Money and Cloaths.
Humphry,

Here I surrender up all my Winnings, Sir, I found them after some false Enquiries, carrowsing at an Ordinary there in a Disguise. I cogg'd into their Society: Afterward, with false Dice, I heard 'em, naked of all, supposing Want to be the best Counsellor to call them home.

Make-peace.

Thy Travel shall be abundantly rewarded—

Drink fight.

Now is the Hermit drunk under the Table, and snorts as loud as an Alderman at a Sermon.

Enter Hermit, with his Attire.
Hermit.

Will you buy any Botttles, Glasses, Candlesticks? Will you buy any Chamberpots, Cushions, or Tobaccopipes, hoe?

Roger.

How now Hermit! what, are you translating the Ordinary?

Hermit.

Yes, I intend to turn Pedler of great Wares—

Win-all.
[Page 22]

Yonder is a Snail too, stealing my House away upon his Back.

Make-peace.

Bridle your Indignation; I will recompence yours, and Shab-quack's Damages with a double Interest: And because the Hermit is in a frolick Humor, I'll bind him to you for an Apprentice; but the Captain I will richly furnish for the Wars.

Drink-fight,

Sir, I will live your Knight Errant, and fight for your Honor, till my Flesh is all slic'd in Gobbets.

Make-peace.

Come, follow me all, and I will satisfie you with a pleurify of Delights.

Exeunt omnes simul.
Hermit.

I am more proud of this Preferment, than if I had been chosen Jupiter's Cup-bearer. I will get me a Tupster's red Nose immediately, and be always drunk first my self, for the good Ex­ample of the Guests.

Exit.

The Epilogue.

Your Reck'ning Bill's brought up, and now we stand
Suppliants t' have your Score paid down at hand:
For every Line shall be your Page, to shew,
Each Foot we write doth make a Leg to you.
Then Pardon our Offences, since each Letter,
Doth mourn in black, and weeps to be your Debtor.
We ne're paid Fees for Comicks, or to sit
A Pupil enter'd in the School of Wit.
What e're was shown, was but our duties Thoughts.
Writ out in Errors, Scenes of Loyal Faults.
Adventur'd thus by him, who thought not meet,
Christmass should go t'her Grave without a Sheet.
FINIS

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