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A Private Entertainment of the King and Queen.

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P R I V A T E   E N T E R T A I N M E N T

O F   T H E

K I N G   and   Q U E E N,

On M A Y-D A Y in the Morning,

At Sir  W I L L I A M  C O R N W A L L E I S  his House, at Highgate, 1604.

By the same Author.

HE King, and Queen being entred in at the Gate,
 the Penates, or Houshold-gods received them,
 attir'd after the Antick Manner, with Javelins
in their Hands, standing on each side of the Porch, with
this Speech.



Eap light Hearts in every Breast,
   Joy is now the fittest Passion;
Double Majesty hath blest
   All the Place, with that high Grace,
      Exceedeth Admiration!


Welcome, Monarch of this Isle,
   Europe's Envy, and her Mirror;
Great in each part of thy Style:
   England's wish, and Scotland's bliss,
      Both France, and Ireland's terror.


Welcome are you; and no less,
   Your admired Queen: the Glory
Both of State, and Comeliness.
   Every Line of her divine
      Form, is a beautious Story.


High in Fortune, as in Blood,
   So are both; and Blood renowned
By oft Falls, that make a Flood
   In your Veines: yet, all these Streins
      Are in your Virtues drowned.

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House, be proud; For of Earth's Store
   These two, only, are the wonder:
In them she's Rich, and is no more.
   Zeal is bound their praise to sound
      As loud as Fame, or Thunder.


Note, but how the Air, the Spring
   Concur in their Devotions;
Pairs of Turtles sit, and sing
   On each Tree, ore-joy'd to see
      In them like Love, like Motions.


Enter Sir, this longing Dore,
   Whose glad Lord nought could have blessed
Equally; (I'me sure not more)
   Than this sight: sav' of your right,
      When you were first possessed.


That, indeed, transcended this.
   Since which Hour, wherein you gain'd it,
For this Grace, both he and his,
   Every Day, have learn'd to pray,
      And, now, they have obtain'd it.

   Here the Penates lead them in, thorow the House, into the
Garden, where
Mercury, with a second Speech, received them,
walking before them.

   Mer. Retire, you Houshold-gods, and leave these ex-
cellent Creatures to be entertained by a more eminent
Deity. Hail King, and Queen of the Islands, called truly

318 Entertainments.                 

Fortunate, and by you made so. To tell you who I am,
and wear all these notable and speaking Ensigns about me,
were to challenge you of most impossible Ignorance, and
accuse my self of as palpable Glory: It is enough that
you know me here, and come with the Licence of my
Father Jove, who is the bounty of Heaven, to give you
early welcom to the Bower of my Mother Maia, no less
the goodness of Earth. And may it please you to walk,
I will tell you no wonderful Story. This place, whereon
you are now advanced (by the mighty power of Poetry,
and the help of a Faith that can remove Mountains) is
the Arcadian Hill Cyllene, the Place where my self was both
begot, and born; and of which I am frequently called
Cyllenius: Under yond' Purslane-tree stood sometime my
Cradle. Where, now, behold my Mother Maia, sitting
in the Pride of her Plenty, gladding the Air with her
Breath, and cheering the Spring with her Smiles. At her
Feet, the blushing Aurora, who, with her rosy Hand,
casteth her honey Dews on those sweeter Herbs, accom-
panied with that gentle Wind Favonius, whose subtil Spirit,
in the breathing forth, Flora makes into Flowers, and
sticks them in the Grass, as if she contended to have the
imbroidery of the Earth richer than the Cope of the Sky.
Here, for her Month, the yearly delicate May keeps
State; and from this Mount takes pleasure to display these
Valleys, yond' lesser Hills, those statelier Edifices and
Towers, that seem enamour'd so far off, and are rear'd
on end to behold her, as if their utmost Object were her
Beauties. Hither the Dryads of the Valley, and Nymphs
of the great River come every Morning to taste of her
Favours; and depart away with Laps fill'd with her Boun-
ties. But, see! upon your Approach, their Pleasures are
instantly remitted. The Birds are hush'd, Zephyre is still,
the Morn forbears her Office, Flora is dumb, and herself
amazed, to behold two such Marvels, that do more adorn
Place than she can Time: Pardon, your Majesty, the Fault,
for it is that hath caus'd it; and till they can collect their
Spirits think Silence, and Wonder the best Adoration.

   Here Aurora, Zephyrus, and Flora, began this Song in
Three parts.

S O N G.


Ee, see, O see who here is come a Maying!
   The Master of the Ocean;
   And his beautious Orian:
    Why left we our playing?
            To gaze, to gaze,
On them, that Gods no less than Men amaze.
   Up Nightingale, and sing
         Jug, jug, jug, jug, &c.
   Raise Larke thy Note, and Wing,
   All Birds their Musick bring,
   Sweet Robin, Linet, Thrush,
   Record from every Bush,
         The welcom of the King;
            And Queen:
   Whose like were never seen,
         For good, for fair.
   Nor can be; though fresh May,
         Should every day
   Invite a several Pair,
No, though she should invite a several Pair.

   Which ended: Maia (seated in her Bower, with all those
Personages about her, as before describ'd) began to raise herself,
and, then declining, spake.

Mai. If all the Pleasures were distill'd
     Of ev'ry Flower in every Field,
And all that Hybla Hives do yield,
Were into one broad Mazor fil'd;

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     If, thereto, added all the Gums,
And Spice, that from Panchaia comes,
The Odour, that Hydaspes lends,
Or Phnix proves, before she ends;
If all the Air, my Flora drew,
Or Spirit, that Zephyre ever blew;
Were put therein; and all the Dew
That ever rosy Morning knew;
Yet, all diffus'd upon this Bower,
To make one sweet detaining Hour,
Were much too little for the Grace,
And Honour, you vouchsafe the Place.
But, if you please to come again,
We vow, we will not then, with vain,
And empty Pass-times entertain,
Your so desir'd, thou grieved Pain.
For, we will have the wanton Fawns,
That frisking skip about the Lawns,
The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that Multitude,
To dance their wilder Rounds about,
And cleave the Air, with many a Shout,
As they would hunt poor Eccho out
Of yonder Valley, who doth flout
Their rustick Noise. To visit whom
You shall behold whole Bevies come
Of gaudy Nymphs, who tender calls
Well-tun'd (unto the many falls
Of sweet, and several sliding Rills,
That stream from Tops of those less Hills)
Sound like so many silver Quills,
When Zephyre them with Musick fills.
For these, Favonius here shall blow
New Flowers, which you shall see to grow,
Of which, each Hand a part shall take,
And, for your Heads, fresh Garlands make.
Wherewith, whilst they your Temples round,
An Air of several Birds shall sound
An Io Pan, that shall drown
The Acclamations, at your Crown.

All this, and more than I have gift of saying,
May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.

   Mer. And Mercury, her Son, shall venture the Displea-
sure of his Father, with the whole Bench of Heaven, that
day, but he will do his Mother's intents all serviceable
assistance. Till then, and ever, live high and happy, you,
and your other you; both envied for your Fortunes, lov'd
for your Graces, and admired for your Virtues.

   This was the Morning's Entertainment; after Dinner, the King,
and Queen coming again into the Garden,
Mercury the second
time accosted them.

   Mer. Again, great Pair, I salute you; and with leave
of all the Gods: whose high Pleasure it is, that Mercury
make this your Holy-day. May all the Blessings, both of
Earth and Heaven, concur to thank you: For, till this
day's Sun, I have faintly enjoy'd a Minute's rest to my
Creation. Now, I do, and acknowledge it your sole,
and no less than divine Benefit. If my desire to delight
you, might not divert to your trouble, I would intreat
your Eyes to a new and strange Spectacle; a certain Son
of mine, whom the Arcadians call a God, howsoever the
rest of the World receive him: It is the horned Pan, whom
in the translated Figure of a Goat I begot on the fair
Spartan Penelope; May, let both your Ears and Looks for-
give it: These are but the lightest escapes of our Deities.
And it is better in me to prevent his rustick Impudence,
by my blushing Acknowledgment, than anon by his rude,
and not insolent Claim, be inforced to confess him. Yon-
der he keeps, and with him the Wood-Nymphs, whose
Leader he is in Rounds and Dances, to this Sylvan Musick.

              Entertainments. 319

The Place, about which they skip, is the Font of Laughter,
or Bacchus Spring; whose Statue is advanced on the top;
and from whose Pipes, at an observ'd Hour of the Day,
there flows a lusty Liquor, that hath a present Virtue to
expel Sadness; and within certain Minutes after it is
tasted, force all the Mirth of the Spleen into the Face. Of
this is Pan the Guardian. Lo! the Fountain begins to
run, but the Nymphs at your sight are fled. Pan, and his
Satyrs wisely stand at gaze. I will approach, and question
him: vouchsafe your Ear, and forgive his Behaviour,
which (even to me, that am his Parent) will no doubt
be rude enough, though otherwise full of Salt, which ex-
cept my Presence did temper, might turn to be Gall and
Bitterness; but that shall charm him.

   Pan. O, it is Mercury! Hollow 'em, agen,
What be all these, Father? Gods, or Men?
   Mer. All humane. Only, these Two are Deities on
Earth, but such, as the greatest Powers of Heaven may
resign to.
   Pan. Why did our Nymphs run away? can you tell?
Here be sweet Beauties love Mercury well?
I see by their Looks. How say you? great Master?
Will you please to hear? Shall I be your Taster?
   Mer. Pan, you are too rude.   Pan. It is but a Glass,
By my Beard, and by my Horns, 'tis a Health, and shall pass.
Were he a King, and his Mistress a Queen,
This Draught shall make him a petulant Spleen.
But, trow, is he loose, or costive of Laughter?
I'ld know, to fill him his Glass, thereafter;
Sure, either my Skill, or my Sight doth mock,
Or this Lording's Look should not care for the Smock;
And yet he should love both a Horse and a Hound,
And not rest till he saw his Game on the Ground:
Well, look to him, Dame; beshrow me were I
'Mongst these bonny Bells, you should need a good Eye.
Here Mistress; all out. Since a God is your Skinker:
By my Hand, I believe you were born a good Drinker.
They are Things of no Spirit, their Blood is asleep,
That, when it is off'red 'em, do not Drink deep.
   Come, who is next? Our Liquor here cools.
Ladies, I'am sure, you all ha'not Fools
At home to laugh at. A little of this,
Tane down here in private, were not amiss.

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Believe it, she drinks like a Wench that had store
Of Lord for her Laughter, will you have more?
   What answer you, Lordings? will you any or none?
Laugh, and be fat, Sir, your Penance is known.
They that love Mirth, let 'em heartily Drink,
'Tis the only Receipt, to make Sorrow sink.
   The young Nymph, that's troubled with an old Man,
Let her laugh him away, as fast as he can.
   Nay Drink, and not Pause, as who would say must you?
But laugh at the Wench, that next doth trust you.
   To you, sweet Beauty; nay, 'pray you come hither:
E're you sit out, you'll laugh at a Feather.
   I'll never fear you, for being too witty,
You sip, so like a forsooth of the City.
   Lords, for your selves, your own Cups crown,
The Ladies, ifaith, else will laugh you down.
   Go to, little Blushet, for this, anan,
You'll steal forth a Laugh in the Shade of your Fan.
   This, and another Thing, I can tell you,such in 1616 folio, later editions substitute 'ye'
Will breed a Laughter, as low as your Belly.
   Of such sullen Pieces, Jove sends us not many,
They must be tickled, before they will any.
   What have we done? They that want, let 'em call,
Gallants, of both sides, you see here is all
Pan's Entertainment: Look for no more.
Only good Faces, I read you, make store
Of your amorous Knights, and Squires hereafter,
They are excellent Sponges, to drink up your Laughter.
Farewel, I must seek out my Nymphs, that you frighted;
Thank Hermes, my Father, if ought have delighted.

   Mer. I am sure, thy last rudeness cannot; for it makes
me seriously asham'd. I will not labour his excuse, since
I know you more ready to pardon, than he to trespass:
but for your singular Patience, tender you all abundance
of Thanks; and, mixing with the Master of the Place, in
his Wishes, make them my Divinations: That your loves
be ever flourishing as May, and your House as fruitfull:
That your Acts exceed the best, and your Years the lon-
gest of your Predecessors: That no bad Fortune touch
you, nor good change you. But still, that you triumph
in this facility over the ridiculous Pride of other Princes;
and for ever live safe in the love rather than the fear of
your Subjects.

And thus it ended.                            

B E N.  J O H N S O N.   


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