_Rol._ Canst thou do it neatly? _Lat._ Let me alone, and such a bait it shall be, Shall take off all suspicion. _Rol._ Go, and prosper. _Lat._ Walk in then, and your smoothest face put on Sir. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter the Master Cook, Butler, Pantler, Yeoman of the Cellar, with a Jack of Beer and a Dish._ _Cook._ A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot day boys, Give me some drink, this fire's a plaguy fretter: Body of me, I'm dry still; give me the Jack boy; This wooden Skiff holds nothing. _Pant._ And faith master, what brave new meats; for here Will be old eating. _Coo._ Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it; I have ballast for their bellies, if they eat a gods name, Let them have ten tire of teeth a piece, I care not. _But._ But what new rare munition? _Coo._ Pish, a thousand; I'le make you piggs speak _French_ at table, and a fat swan Come sailing out of _England_ with a challenge; I'le make you a dish of calves-feet dance the Canaries, And a consort of cramm'd capons fiddle to 'em; A calves head speak an Oracle, and a dozen of Larks Rise from the dish, and sing all supper time; 'Tis nothing boyes: I have framed a fortification Out of Rye paste, which is impregnable, And against that, for two long hours together, Two dozen of marrow-bones shall play continually: For fish, I'le make you a standing lake of white broth, And pikes come ploughing up the plums before them; _Arion_, like a Dolphin, playing Lachrymæ, And brave King Herring with his oyle and onyon Crown'd with a Limon pill, his way prepar'd With his strong Guard of Pilchers. _Pant._ I marry Master. _Coo._ All these are nothing: I'le make you a stubble Goose Turn o'th' toe thrice, do a cross point presently, And sit down again, and cry come eat me: These are for mirth. Now Sir, for matter of mourning, I'le bring you in the Lady Loyn of Veal, With the long love she bore the Prince of _Orenge_. _All._ Thou boy, thou. _Coo._ I have a trick for thee too, And a rare trick, and I have done it for thee. _Yeo._ What's that good master? _Coo._ 'Tis a sacrifice. A full Vine bending, like an Arch, and under The blown god _Bacchus_, sitting on a Hogshead, His Altar Beer: before that, a plump Vintner Kneeling, and offring incense to his deitie, Which shall be only this, red Sprats and Pilchers. _But._ This when the Table's drawn, to draw the wine on. _Coo._ Thou hast it right, and then comes thy Song, Butler. _Pant._ This will be admirable. _Yeo._ Oh Sir, most admirable.