SUR.

And I'll

Be bound, the players shall sing your praises then,

Without their poets.

MAM.

Sir, I'll do't. Meantime,

I'll give away so much unto my man,

Shall serve the whole city, with preservative,

Weekly, each house his dose, and at the rate –

SUR.

As he that built the waterwork, does with water?

MAM.

You are incredulous.

SUR.

Faith, I have a humour,

I would not willingly be gulled. Your stone

Cannot transmute me.

MAM.

Pertinax, my Surly,

Will you believe antiquity? Records?

I'll show you a book, where Moses, and his sister,

And Solomon have written of the art;

Aye, and a treatise penned by Adam.

SUR.

How!

MAM.

O' the philosophers' stone, and in high Dutch.

SUR.

Did Adam write, sir, in high Dutch?

MAM.

He did:

Which proves it was the primitive tongue.

SUR.

What paper?

MAM.

On cedar board.

SUR.

Oh that, indeed (they say)

Will last 'gainst worms.

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 large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.

Such was Pythagoras' thigh, Pandora's tub;

And all that fable of Medea's charms,

The manner of our work: the bulls, our furnace,

Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:

The dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate,

That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;

And they are gathered into Jason's helm,

(The alembic) and then sowed in Mars his field,

And thence sublimed so often, till they are fixed.

Both this, the Hesperian garden, Cadmus' story,

Jove's shower, the boon of Midas, Argus' eyes,

Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,

All abstract riddles of our stone. How now?

 

Scene 2

Enter Face

 

MAM.

Do we succeed? Is our day come? And holds it?

FAC.

The evening will set red upon you, sir;

You have colour for it, crimson: the red ferment

Has done his office. Three hours hence, prepare you

To see projection.

MAM.

Pertinax, my Surly,

Again, I say to thee, aloud: 'be rich'.

This day thou shalt have ingots: and tomorrow,

Give lords the affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right?

Blushes the bolt's-head?

FAC.

Like a wench with child, sir,

That were but now discovered to her master.

MAM.

Excellent witty Lungs! My only care is,

Where to get stuff enough now, to project on,

This town will not half serve me.

FAC.

No, sir? Buy

The covering off o' churches.

MAM.

That's true.

FAC.

Yes.

Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory.

Or cap 'em, new, with shingles.

MAM.

No, good thatch:

Thatch will lie light upo' the rafters, Lungs.

Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the furnace;

I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff,

Lost in the embers; and repair this brain,

Hurt wi' the fume o'the mettals.

FAC.

I have blown, sir,

Hard, for your worship; thrown by many a coal,

When 'twas not beech; weighed those I put in, just,

To keep your heat still even; these bleared-eyes

Have waked, to read your several colours, sir,

Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow,

The peacock's tail, the plumed swan.

MAM.

And lastly,

Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis agni?

FAC.

Yes, sir.

MAM.

Where's master?

FAC.

At's 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.

FAC.

Good, sir.

MAM.

But do you hear?

I'll geld you, Lungs.

FAC.

Yes, sir.

MAM.

For I do mean

To have a list of wives and concubines,

Equal with Solomon; who had the stone

Alike with me: and I will make me a back

With the elixir that shall be as tough

As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night.

Th'art sure, thou saw'st it blood?

FAC.

Both blood, and spirit, sir.

MAM.

I will have all my beds blown up; not stuffed:

Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room,

Filled with such pictures, as Tiberius took

From Elephantis, and dull Aretine

But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses,

Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse

And multiply the figures, as I walk

Naked between my succubae. My mists

I'll have of perfume, vapoured 'bout the room,

To loose ourselves in; and my baths, like pits

To fall into: from whence we will come forth,

And roll us dry in gossamer and roses.

(Is it arrived at ruby?) – Where I spy

A wealthy citizen, or rich lawyer,

Have a sublimed pure wife, unto that fellow

I'll send a thousand pound, to be my cuckold.

FAC.

And I shall carry it?

MAM.

No.