Shall not advance thee better: no, nor faster.
Has he bit? Has he bit?
And swallowed, too, my Subtle.
I have given him line, and now he plays, i’faith.
And shall we twitch him?
Thorough both the gills.
A wench is a rare bait, with which a man
No sooner’s taken, but he straight firks mad.
Dol, my Lord What’ts’hums sister, you must now
Bear yourself statelich.
O let me alone.
I’ll not forget my race, I warrant you.
I’ll keep my distance, laugh and talk aloud;
Have all the tricks of a proud scurvy lady,
And be as rude as her woman.
Well said, sanguine!
But will he send his andirons?
His jack too,
And’s iron shoeing-horn; I have spoke to him. Well,
I must not lose my wary gamester yonder.
O Monsieur Caution, that will not be gulled?
Ay,
If I can strike a fine hook into him, now!
The Temple-church, there I have cast mine angle.
Well, pray for me. I’ll about it.
Knocking without.
What, more gudgeons!
Dol, scout, scout!
Dol goes to the window.
Stay, Face, you must go to the door,
’Pray God it be my Anabaptist—Who is’t, Dol?
I know him not: he looks like a gold-endman.
Ods so! ’Tis he, he said he would send what call you him?
The sanctified elder, that should deal
For Mammon’s jack and andirons. Let him in.
Stay, help me off, first, with my gown.
Away,
Madam, to your withdrawing chamber.
Now,
In a new tune, new gesture, but old language.—
This fellow is sent from one negotiates with me
About the stone too, for the holy Brethren
Of Amsterdam, the exiled saints, that hope
To raise their discipline by it. I must use him
In some strange fashion, now, to make him admire me.—
Aloud.
Where is my drudge?
Sir!
Take away the recipient,
And rectify your menstrue from the phlegma.
Then pour it on the Sol, in the cucurbite,
And let them macerate together.
Yes, sir.
And save the ground?
No: Terra damnata
Must not have entrance in the work.—Who are you?
A faithful brother, if it please you.
What’s that?
A Lullianist? A Ripley? Filius artis?
Can you sublime and dulcify? Calcine?
Know you the sapor pontic? Sapor stiptic?
Or what is homogene, or heterogene?
I understand no heathen language, truly.
Heathen! You Knipper-doling? Is Ars sacra,
Or chrysopoeia, or spagyrica,
Or the pamphysic, or panarchic knowledge,
A heathen language?
Heathen Greek, I take it.
How! Heathen Greek?
All’s heathen but the Hebrew.
Sirrah, my varlet, stand you forth and speak to him,
Like a philosopher: answer in the language.
Name the vexations, and the martyrisations
Of metals in the work.
Sir, putrefaction,
Solution, ablution, sublimation,
Cohobation, calcination, ceration, and
Fixation.
This is heathen Greek to you, now!—
And when comes vivification?
After mortification.
What’s cohobation?
’Tis the pouring on
Your aqua regis, and then drawing him off,
To the trine circle of the seven spheres.
What’s the proper passion of metals?
Malleation.
What’s your ultimum supplicium auri?
Antimonium.
This is heathen Greek to you!—And what’s your mercury?
A very fugitive, he will be gone, sir.
How know you him?
By his viscosity,
His oleosity, and his suscitability.
How do you sublime him?
With the calce of eggshells,
White marble, talc.
Your magisterium now,
What’s that?
Shifting, sir, your elements,
Dry into cold, cold into moist, moist into hot,
Hot into dry.
This is heathen Greek to you still!
Your lapis philosophicus?
’Tis a stone,
And not a stone; a spirit, a soul, and a body:
Which if you do dissolve, it is dissolved;
If you coagulate, it is coagulated;
If you make it to fly, it flieth.
Enough.
This is heathen Greek to you! What are you, sir?
Please you, a servant of the exiled Brethren,
That deal with widows’ and with orphans’ goods,
And make a just account unto the Saints:
A Deacon.
O, you are sent from master Wholesome,
Your teacher?
From Tribulation Wholesome,
Our very zealous pastor.
Good! I have
Some orphans’ goods to come here.
Of what kind, sir?
Pewter and brass, andirons and kitchenware,
Metals, that we must use our medicine on:
Wherein the Brethren may have a pennyworth
For ready money.
Were the orphans’ parents
Sincere professors?
Why do you ask?
Because
We then are to deal justly, and give, in truth,
Their utmost value.
’Slid, you’d cozen else,
And if their parents were not of the faithful!—
I will not trust you, now I think on it,
’Till I have talked with your pastor. Have you brought money
To buy more coals?
No, surely.
No! How so?
The Brethren bid me say unto you, sir,
Surely, they will not venture any more,
Till they may see projection.
How!
You have had,
For the instruments, as bricks, and loam, and glasses,
Already thirty pound; and for materials,
They say, some ninety more: and they have heard since,
That one at Heidelberg, made it of an egg,
And a small paper of pin-dust.
What’s your name?
My name is Ananias.
Out, the varlet
That cozened the Apostles! Hence, away!
Flee, mischief! Had your holy Consistory
No name to send me, of another sound,
Than wicked Ananias? Send your elders
Hither to make atonement for you quickly,
And give me satisfaction; or out goes
The fire; and down th’ alembics, and the furnace,
Piger Henricus, or whatnot. Thou wretch!
Both sericon and bufo shall be lost,
Tell them. All hope of rooting out the Bishops,
Or the antichristian hierarchy, shall perish,
If they stay threescore minutes: the aqueity,
Terreity, and sulphureity
Shall run together again, and all be annulled,
Thou wicked Ananias!
This will fetch ’em,
And make them haste towards their gulling more.
A man must deal like a rough nurse, and fright
Those that are froward, to an appetite.
He is busy with his spirits, but we’ll upon him.
How now! What mates, what Baiards have we here?
I told you,
