A lord’s sister, sir.
How! Pray thee, stay.
She’s mad, sir, and sent hither—
He’ll be mad too.—
I warrant thee.—
Why sent hither?
Sir, to be cured.
Within. Why, rascal!
Lo you!—Here, sir!
’Fore God, a Bradamante, a brave piece.
Heart, this is a bawdyhouse! I will be burnt else.
O, by this light, no: do not wrong him. He’s
Too scrupulous that way: it is his vice.
No, he’s a rare physician, do him right,
An excellent Paracelsian, and has done
Strange cures with mineral physic. He deals all
With spirits, he; he will not hear a word
Of Galen; or his tedious recipes.—
How now, Lungs!
Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant
To have told your worship all. This must not hear.
No, he will not be “gulled;” let him alone.
You are very right, sir, she is a most rare scholar,
And is gone mad with studying Broughton’s works.
If you but name a word touching the Hebrew,
She falls into her fit, and will discourse
So learnedly of genealogies,
As you would run mad too, to hear her, sir.
How might one do t’ have conference with her, Lungs?
O diverse have run mad upon the conference:
I do not know, sir. I am sent in haste,
To fetch a vial.
Be not gulled, Sir Mammon.
Wherein? Pray ye, be patient.
Yes, as you are,
And trust confederate knaves and bawds and whores.
You are too foul, believe it.—Come here, Ulen,
One word.
I dare not, in good faith.
Going.
Stay, knave.
He is extreme angry that you saw her, sir.
Drink that. Gives him money.
What is she when she’s out of her fit?
O, the most affablest creature, sir! So merry!
So pleasant! She’ll mount you up, like quicksilver,
Over the helm; and circulate like oil,
A very vegetal: discourse of state,
Of mathematics, bawdry, anything—
Is she no way accessible? No means,
No trick to give a man a taste of her—wit—
Or so?
Within. Ulen!
I’ll come to you again, sir.
Surly, I did not think one of your breeding
Would traduce personages of worth.
Sir Epicure,
Your friend to use; yet still loth to be gulled:
I do not like your philosophical bawds.
Their stone is letchery enough to pay for,
Without this bait.
’Heart, you abuse yourself.
I know the lady, and her friends, and means,
The original of this disaster. Her brother
Has told me all.
And yet you never saw her
Till now!
O yes, but I forgot. I have, believe it,
One of the treacherousest memories, I do think,
Of all mankind.
What call you her brother?
My lord—
He will not have his name known, now I think on’t.
A very treacherous memory!
On my faith—
Tut, if you have it not about you, pass it,
Till we meet next.
Nay, by this hand, ’tis true.
He’s one I honour, and my noble friend;
And I respect his house.
Heart! Can it be,
That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need,
A wise sir, too, at other times, should thus,
With his own oaths, and arguments, make hard means
To gull himself? An this be your elixir,
Your lapis mineralis, and your lunary,
Give me your honest trick yet at primero,
Or gleek; and take your lutum sapientis,
Your menstruum simplex! I’ll have gold before you,
And with less danger of the quicksilver,
Or the hot sulphur.
Here’s one from Captain Face, sir,
To Surly.
Desires you meet him in the Temple-church,
Some half-hour hence, and upon earnest business.
Whispers to Mammon.
Sir, if you please to quit us, now; and come
Again within two hours, you shall have
My master busy examining o’ the works;
And I will steal you in, unto the party,
That you may see her converse.—Sir, shall I say,
You’ll meet the Captain’s worship?
Sir, I will.—
Walks aside.
But, by attorney, and to a second purpose.
Now, I am sure it is a bawdyhouse;
I’ll swear it, were the Marshal here to thank me:
The naming this Commander doth confirm it.
Don Face! Why, he’s the most authentic dealer
In these commodities, the superintendant
To all the quainter traffickers in town!
He is the visitor, and does appoint,
Who lies with whom, and at what hour; what price;
Which gown, and in what smock; what fall; what tire.
Him will I prove, by a third person, to find
The subtleties of this dark labyrinth:
Which if I do discover, dear Sir Mammon,
You’ll give your poor friend leave, though no philosopher,
To laugh: for you that are, ’tis thought, shall weep.
Sir, he does pray, you’ll not forget.
I will not, sir.
Sir Epicure, I shall leave you.
I follow you, straight.
But do so, good sir, to avoid suspicion.
This gentleman has a parlous head.
But wilt thou Ulen,
Be constant to thy promise?
As my life, sir.
And wilt thou insinuate what I am, and praise me,
And say, I am a noble fellow?
O, what else, sir?
And that you’ll make her royal with the stone,
An empress; and yourself, King of Bantam.
Wilt thou do this?
Will I, sir!
Lungs, my Lungs!
I love thee.
Send your stuff, sir, that my master
May busy himself about projection.
Thou hast witched me, rogue: take, go.
Gives him money.
Your jack, and all, sir.
Thou art a villain—I will send my jack,
And the weights too. Slave, I could bite thine ear.
Away, thou dost not care for me.
Not I, sir!
Come, I was born to make thee, my good weasel,
Set thee on a bench, and have thee twirl a chain
With the best lord’s vermin of ’em all.
Away, sir.
A count, nay, a count palatine—
Good,
