And cross out my ill days, that I may neither Bargain, nor trust upon them. Face. That he shall, Nab. Leave it, it shall be done 'gainst afternoon. Art thou well pleas'd, Nab? Drug. Thank, sir, both your worships. [Erit DRUG. Why now, you smoky persecutor of Nature! Now, do you see, that something is to be done Beside your beech-coal, and your cor'sive waters, Your croslets, crucibles, and cucurbites? You must have stuff brought home to you, to work on? And yet you think I am at no expence, Sub. You're pleasant, sir. How now? SCENE IV. FACE, DOLL, and SUBTLE. Sub. What says my dainty Dolkin? Will not away. And there's your giantess, Sub. Heart, I cannot speak with 'em. Dol. Not afore night, I have told 'em, in a voice, Through the trunk, like one of your familiars. Dol. Coming along, at far end of the lane, Sub. Face, go you, and shift. With the sun's rising: Marvel he could sleep! ACT II. SCENE 1. Enter MAMMON and SURLY. Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot In novo orbe: Here's the rich Peru: This is the day wherein, to all my friends, You shall no more deal with the hollow die, The livery punk for the young heir, that must And unto thee, I speak it first, Be rich !— He'll come to you by and by. Mam. That's his fire-drake, His lungs, his zephyrus, he that puffs his coals, Sur. What, and turn that too? Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, And make them perfect Indies. You admire now? Sur. No, faith. Mam. But when you see th' effects of the great medicine! Of which one part projected on a hundred You will believe me? Sur. Yes, when I see't, I will. Do you think I fable with you? I assure you, Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle, Young giants; as our philosophers have done, (The ancient patriarchs before the flood) But taking, once a-week, on a knife's point, The quantity of a grain of mustard, of it: Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pickthatch would thank you, That keep the fire alive, there. Mam. 'Tis the secret Of nature, naturiz'd 'gainst all infections, A month's grief, in a day, a year's, in twelve: Sur. And I'll Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood, 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's fleece, too, Which was no other than a book of alchemy, Writ in a large sheep-skin, a good fat ram-vellum. Such was Pythagoras's thigh, Pandora's tub; And all that table of Medea's charms, The manner of our work: The bulls, our fur nace, Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon: And they are gather'd into Jason's helm, Both this, th' Hesperian garden, Cadmus's story, SCENE II. MAMMON, FACE, and SURLY. Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir; You have colour for it, crimson: The red fer ment Has done his office. Three hours hence, pre pare you To see projection. Mani. Pertinax, my Surly, Again, I say to thee, aloud, be rich. This day thou shalt have ingots: and, to-morrow, Give lords th' affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right? Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, Blushes the bolts-head? then, Without their poets. Mam. Sir, I'll do't. Mean time, I'll give away so much, unto my man, Mam. You are incredulous. Sur. Faith, I have a humour, I would not willingly be gull'd. Your stone Mam. Pertinax, Surly, Will you believe antiquity? records? Face. Like a wench with child, sir, That were but now discover'd to her master. Man. Excellent witty Lungs! My only care is, Where to get stuff enough now to project on, This town will not half serve me. Face. No, sir? Buy The covering of churches. Mam. That's true. Face. Yes, Let 'em stand bare, as they do for auditory. Mam. No, good thatch: Thatch will lie light upon the rafters. Lungs. I'll shew you a book, where Moses, and his I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff, sister, Lost in the embers; and repair this brain, Face. I have blown, sir, Hard, for your worship; thrown by many a coal, When 'twas not beech; weigh'd those I put in, just, To keep your heat still even; these blear'd eyes Have wak'd to read your several colours, sir, Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow, The peacock's tail, the plum'd swan. Mum. And, lastly, Thou hast descry'd the flower, the sanguis agni? Face. Yes, sir. Mam. Where's master? Face. At his prayers, sir, he; Good man, he's doing his devotions, For the success. Mam. Lungs, I will set a period, To all thy labours: Thou shalt be the master Of my seraglio. Face. Good, sir. Mam. But do you hear? I'll geld you, Lungs. Face. Yes, sir. Mam. For I do mean To have a list of wives and concubines Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. Mam. I will have all my beds blown up; not stuft: Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room, But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses, Have a sublim'd pure wife, unto that fellow I'll send a thousand pound, to be my cuckold. Face. And I shall carry it? Mam. No, I'll ha' no bawds, But fathers and mothers. They will do it best, Face. Sir, I'll go look A little how it heightens. Mam. Do. My shirts I'll have of taffata-sarsnet, soft, and light Sur. And do you think to have the stone with this? Mam. No, I do think t' have all this with the stone. Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be homo frugi, A pious, holy, and religious man, One free from mortal sin, a very virgin. Mam. That makes it, sir, he is so. But I buy it. My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, A notable superstitious, good soul, Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald, With prayer and fasting for it: And, sir, let him Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes, Not a prophane word afore him: 'Tis poison. SCENE III. MAMMON, SUBTLE, SURLY, and FACE. Mam. Good-morrow, father. Sub. Gentle son, good-morrow, And, to your friend there. What is he, is with you? Mam. An heretic, that I did bring along, In hope, sir, to convert him. Sub. Son, I doubt You're covetous, that thus you meet your time Take heed you do not cause the blessing leave you, With your ungovern'd haste. I should be sorry. 'em. Which, (Heav'n I call to witness, with yourself, To whom I have pour'd my thoughts) in all my ends, Have look'd no way, but unto public good, Sur. Who is, Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief All that I can convince him in, is this, The work is done: Bright Sol is in his robe. Sub. Look well to the register, And let your heat still lessen by degrees, Mam. By pouring on your rectified water? Mam. That's your crow's head? Sub. No, 'tis not perfect; would it were the crow! That work wants something. Sur. O, I look'd for this. The hay is a-pitching. Sub. Are you sure, you loos'd 'em I' their own menstrue? Face. Yes, sir, and then married 'em, And put 'em in a bolt's-head, nipp'd to digestion, According as you bade me; when I set Sub. The process, then, was right. Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort brake, And what was saved, was put into the pellican, And sign'd with Hermes's seal. Sub. I think 'twas so. We should have a new amalgama. Sur. O, this ferret Is rank as any polecat. Sub. But I care not. Let him e'en die; we have enough beside, He's ripe for inceration: He stands warm, Sur. Ay, are you bolted? I have seen th' ill fortune. What is some three ounces Of fresh materials? Mam. Is't no more? Face. No more, sir, Of gold, t' amalgame with some six of mercury. Mm. Away, here's money. What will serve? e. Ask him, sir. Mam. How much? Sub. Give him nine pound: You may gi' him ten. Sur. Yes, twenty, and be cozen'd, do. Mam. There 'tis. Sub. This needs not, but that you will have it so, To see conclusions of all. For two Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar? Sur. We shall have a sallad. Mam. When do you make projection? Sub. Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med'cine, By hanging him in balneo vaporoso; And giving him solution; then congeal him; And then dissolve him; then again congeal him; | It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver: For look, how oft I iterate the work, So many times I add unto his virtue, As, if, at first, one ounce convert a hundred, Sub. Yes. You may bring them, too. We'll change all metals. Sur. I believe you in that. Mam. Then I may send my spits? Sub. Yes, and your racks. Who are the parents of all other metals. That both do act and suffer. But these two Sur. And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, and Beside, who doth not see, in daily practice, hooks? Shall he not? Sub. If he please. Sur. To be an ass. Sub. How, sir? Sur. That cannot be. The egg's ordain'd by nature to that end, Sub. The same we say of lead, and other metals, Mam. And that our art doth further. To think that nature, in the earth, bred gold There must be remote matter. Sur. Ay, what is that? Sub. Marry, we say Mam. Ay, now it heats: Stand, father. Pound him to dust Sub. It is, of the one part, A humid exhalation, which we call On th' other part, a certain crass and viscous But common to all metals, and all stones. Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, wasps, Mam. Well said, father! Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument, Sur. Pray you, sir, stay. Rather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll believe, Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to cheat a man Sub. Sir? Sur. What else are all your terms, Your stone, your med'cine, and your chrysos- Your sal, your sulphur, and your mercury, Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop, Of piss and egg-shells, women's terms, man's clay, Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass, Sub. And all these, nam'd, Intending but one thing: Which art our writers Mam. Sir, so I told him, Because the simple idiot should not learn it, Sub. Was not all the knowledge |