Neptune's Triumph for the Return of Albion · chunk 2 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1624 [Jan 6 (projected)] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T44 Drinking: wine, ale and taverns · 505 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T44: drink, wine, numps, ale, butler, pot, sing, moy, drunk, win.
O, you are for the Oracle of the Bottle, I see; Hogshead Trismegistus: He is your Pegasus. Thence flows the spring of your Muses, from that hoof. Seduced Poet, I do say to thee,— A Boiler, Range, and Dresser were the fountains Of all the knowledge, in the Universe, And that's the Kitchin. Where, a Master-cook! Thou dost not know the man! nor canst thou know him! Till thou hast served some years in that deep school, That's both the Nurse, and Mother of the Arts, And hearest him read, interpret, and demonstrate. A Master-cook! why, he is the man of men, For a Professor! He designs, he draws, He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies, Makes Citadels of curious fowl, and fish, Some he dry-ditches, some motes round with broths; Mounts marrowbones; cuts fifty-angled custards; Rears bulwark pies; and, for his outer works, He raiseth ramparts of immortal crust; And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner: What ranks, what files, to put his dishes in The whole Art Military! Than he knows The influence of the stars, upon his meats; And all their seasons, tempers, qualities, And so, to fit his relishes, and sauces! He, has Nature in a pot! 'bove all the Chemists, Or bare-breeched brethrens of the Rosy-crosse! He is an Architect, an Engineer, A Soldier, a Physician, a Philosopher, A general Mathematician! It is granted. And, that you may not doubt him for a Poet, This Fury shows, if there were nothing else. And 'tis divine! Than, Brother Poet, Brother. I have a suit. What is it? Your devise. As you came in upon me, I was than Offering the argument, and this it is. Silence. 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 sand 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, 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.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O, you are for the Oracle of the Bottle, I ſee; Hogſhead Triſmegiſtus: He is your Pegaſus. Thence flowes the ſpring of your Muſes, from that hoofe. Seduced Poet, I doe ſay to thee,— A Boyler, Range, and Dreſſer were the fountaines Of all the knowledge, in the Univerſe, And that's the Kitchin. Where, a Maſter-Cooke! Thou do'ſt not know the man! nor canſt thou know him! Till thou haſt ſerv'd ſome yeares in that deepe ſchoole, That's both the Nource, and Mother of the Arts, And hear'ſt him read, interpret, and demonſtrate. A Maſter-Cooke! why, he is the man of men, For a Profeſſor! He deſignes, he drawes, He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies, Makes Citadels of curious fowle, and fiſh, Some he dry-ditches, ſome motes round with broths; Mounts marrow-bones; cuts fifty-angled cuſtards; Reares bulwarke pies; and, for his outer workes, He raiſeth ramparts of immortall cruſt; And teacheth all the tacticks at one dinner: What rankes, what files, to put his diſhes in The whole Art Militarie! Then he knowes The influence of the ſtarres, upon his meates; And all their ſeaſons, tempers, qualities, And ſo, to fit his reliſhes, and ſauces! He, has Nature in a pot! 'bove all the Chemiſts, Or bare-breech'd brethren of the Roſie-Croſſe! He is an Architect, an Inginer, A Souldier, a Phyſition, a Philoſopher, A generall Mathematician! It is granted. And, that you may not doubt him for a Poet, This Fury ſhewes, if there were nothing elſe. And 'tis divine! Then, Brother Poet, Brother. I have a ſuite. What is it? Your deviſe. As you came in upon me, I was then Offering the argument, and this it is. Silence. The mightie Neptune, mightie in his ſtyles, And large command of waters, and of Iſles, Not, as the Lord and Soveraigne of the Seas, But, Chiefe in the art of riding, late did pleaſe To ſend his Albion forth, the moſt his owne, Upon diſcovery, to themſelves beſt knowne, Through Celtiberia; and, to aſſiſt his courſe, Gave him his powerfull MANAGER of Horſe, With divine Proteus, Father of diſguiſe, To waite upon them with his counſels wiſe, In all extreames. His great commands being done, And he deſirous to review his Sonne, He doth diſpatch a floting Ile, 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 encountred on the coaſt, How neere our generall Joy was to be loſt, Is not our ſubject now: though all theſe make The preſent gladneſſe greater, for their ſake. But what the triumphs are, the feaſt, the ſport, And proud ſolemnities of Neptunes Court, Now he is ſafe, and Fame's not heard in vaine, But we behold our happie pledge againe. That with him, loyall HIPPIVS is return'd, Who for it, under ſo much envie, burn'd With his owne brightneſſe, till her ſterv'd ſnakes ſaw What Neptune did impoſe, to him was law.