Like fair Adonis ’twixt the paps of Venus,
Where I, conducting in and out the wind,
Daily examine all the air inspir’d
By my pure searching, if that it be pure,
And fit to serve the lungs with lively breath: 
Hence do I likewise minister perfume[s]
Unto the neighbour brain—­perfumes of force
To cleanse your head, and make your fancy bright,
To refine wit and sharp[293] invention,
And strengthen memory:  from whence it came,
That old devotion incense did ordain
To make man’s spirit more apt for things divine. 
Besides a thousand more commodities,
In lieu whereof your lordships I request,
Give me the crown, if I deserve it best.

    [OLFACTUS leads his company about the stage, and goes out.

SCAENA QUINTA.

The Bench as before.  A page with a shield Argent, an ape proper with an apple; then GUSTUS with a cornucopia in his hand.  BACCHUS in a garland of leaves and grapes, a white suit, and over it a thin sarcenet to his foot, in his hand a spear wreathed with vine leaves, on his arm a target with a tiger.  CERES with a crown of ears of corn, in a yellow silk robe, a bunch of poppy in her hand, a scutcheon charged with a dragon.

COM.  SEN.  In good time, Gustus.  Have you brought your objects?

GUS.  My servant Appetitus followeth with them.

APP.  Come, come, Bacchus, you are so fat; enter, enter.

PHA.  Fie, fie, Gustus! this is a great indecorum to bring Bacchus alone; you should have made Thirst lead him by the hand.

GUS.  Right, sir; but men nowadays drink often when they be not dry; besides, I could not get red herrings and dried neats’ tongues enough to apparel him in.

COM.  SEN.  What, never a speech of him?

GUS.  I put an octave of iambics in his mouth, and he hath drunk it down.

APP.  Well done, muscadine and eggs stand hot.  What, buttered claret? go thy way, thou hadst best; for blind men that cannot see how wickedly thou look’st—­How now, what small, thin fellow are you here? ha?

BOY.  Beer, forsooth:  Beer, forsooth.

APP.  Beer forsooth, get you gone to the buttery, till I call for you; you are none of Bacchus’s attendants, I am sure; he cannot endure the smell of malt.  Where’s Ceres?  O, well, well, is the march-pane broken?  Ill luck, ill luck!  Come hang’t, never stand to set it together again.  Serve out fruit there.

    [Enter boys with a banquet, marmalade, sweets, &c.;
    deliver it round among the gentlewomen, and go out.]

What, do you come with roast-meat after apples?  Away with it.  Digestion, serve out cheese.  What, but a pennyworth!  It is just the measure of his nose that sold it!  Lamb’s wool, the meekest meat in the world; ’twill let any man fleece it.  Snapdragon there!

MEM.  O, I remember this dish well:  it was first invented by Pluto, to entertain Proserpina withal.