_Co._ O heavens! why do I labour out my life
In a beef-pot? and only search the secrets
Of a Sallad; and know no farther! _And._ They are not
Reveal'd to all heads; These are far above
Your Element of Fire. _Cooke._ I could tell you
Of _Archimides_ glass to fire your coals with,
And of the Philosophers turf that nere goes out;
And _Gilbert Butler_, I could ravish thee,
With two rare inventions. _But._ What are they _Andrew_?
_And._ The one to blanch your bread from chippings base,
And in a moment, as thou wouldst an Almond,
The Sect of the Epicureans invented that;
The other for thy trenches, that's a strong one,
To cleanse you twenty dozen in a minute,
And no noise heard, which is the wonder _Gilbert_,
And this was out of _Plato's_ new _Idea's_.
_But._ Why, what a learned Master do'st thou serve _Andrew_?
_And._ These are but the scrapings of his understanding, _Gilbert_;
With gods and goddesses, and such strange people
He deals, and treats with in so plain a fashion,
As thou do'st with thy boy that drawes thy drink,
Or _Ralph_ there with his kitchin boyes and scalders.
_Coo._ But why should he not be familiar and talk sometimes,
As other Christians do, of hearty matters,
And come into the Kitchin, and there cut his breakfast?
_But._ And then retyre to the Buttry and there eat it,
And drink a lusty bowle to my younger Master
That must be now the heir will do all these,
I and be drunk too; These are mortal things.
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