Sir, I’ll go look
A little, how it heightens.
Do.—My shirts
I’ll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light
As cobwebs; and for all my other raiment,
It shall be such as might provoke the Persian,
Were he to teach the world riot anew.
My gloves of fishes’ and birds’ skins, perfumed
With gums of paradise, and eastern air—
And do you think to have the stone with this?
No, I do think t’ have all this with the stone.
Why, I have heard he must be homo frugi,
A pious, holy, and religious man,
One free from mortal sin, a very virgin.
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 profane word afore him: ’tis poison.—
Good morrow, Father.
Gentle son, good morrow,
And to your friend there. What is he, is with you?
An heretic, that I did bring along,
In hope, sir, to convert him.
Son, I doubt
You are covetous, that thus you meet your time
In the just point: prevent your day at morning.
This argues something, worthy of a fear
Of importune and carnal appetite.
Take heed you do not cause the blessing leave you,
With your ungoverned haste. I should be sorry
To see my labours, now even at perfection,
Got by long watching and large patience,
Not prosper where my love and zeal hath placed them.
Which (heaven I call to witness, with yourself,
To whom I have poured my thoughts) in all my ends,
Have looked no way, but unto public good,
To pious uses, and dear charity
Now grown a prodigy with men. Wherein
If you, my son, should now prevaricate,
And, to your own particular lusts employ
So great and catholic a bliss, be sure
A curse will follow, yea, and overtake
Your subtle and most secret ways.
I know, sir;
You shall not need to fear me; I but come,
To have you confute this gentleman.
Who is,
Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief
Toward your stone; would not be gulled.
Well, son,
All that I can convince him in, is this,
The work is done, bright Sol is in his robe.
We have a medicine of the triple soul,
The glorified spirit. Thanks be to heaven,
And make us worthy of it!—Ulen Spiegel!
Within. Anon, sir.
Look well to the register.
And let your heat still lessen by degrees,
To the aludels.
Within. Yes, sir.
Did you look
On the bolt’s head yet?
Within. Which? On D, sir?
Ay;
What’s the complexion?
Within. Whitish.
Infuse vinegar,
To draw his volatile substance and his tincture:
And let the water in glass E be filtered,
And put into the gripe’s egg. Lute him well;
And leave him closed in balneo.
Within. I will, sir.
What a brave language here is! Next to canting.
I have another work, you never saw, son,
That three days since past the philosopher’s wheel,
In the lent heat of Athanor; and’s become
Sulphur of Nature.
But ’tis for me?
What need you?
You have enough in that is perfect.
O but—
Why, this is covetise!
No, I assure you,
I shall employ it all in pious uses,
Founding of colleges and grammar schools,
Marrying young virgins, building hospitals,
And now and then a church.
How now!
Sir, please you,
Shall I not change the filter?
Marry, yes;
And bring me the complexion of glass B.
Have you another?
Yes, son; were I assured—
Your piety were firm, we would not want
The means to glorify it: but I hope the best.—
I mean to tinct C in sand-heat tomorrow,
And give him imbibition.
Of white oil?
No, sir, of red. F is come over the helm too,
I thank my Maker, in St. Mary’s bath,
And shows lac virginis. Blessed be heaven!
I sent you of his faeces there calcined:
Out of that calx, I have won the salt of mercury.
By pouring on your rectified water?
Yes, and reverberating in Athanor.
How now! What colour says it?
The ground black, sir.
That’s your crow’s head?
Your cockscomb’s, is it not?
No, ’tis not perfect. Would it were the crow!
That work wants something.
Aside. O, I looked for this.
The hay’s a pitching.
Are you sure you loosed them
In their own menstrue?
Yes, sir, and then married them,
And put them in a bolt’s head nipped to digestion,
According as you bade me, when I set
The liquor of Mars to circulation
In the same heat.
The process then was right.
Yes, by the token, sir, the retort brake,
And what was saved was put into the pelican,
And signed with Hermes’ seal.
I think ’twas so.
We should have a new amalgama.
Aside. O, this ferret
Is rank as any polecat.
But I care not:
Let him e’en die; we have enough beside,
In embrion. H has his white shirt on?
Yes, sir,
He’s ripe for inceration, he stands warm,
In his ash-fire. I would not you should let
Any die now, if I might counsel, sir,
For luck’s sake to the rest: it is not good.
He says right.
Aside. Ay, are you bolted?
Nay, I know’t, sir,
I have seen the ill fortune. What is some three ounces
Of fresh materials?
Is’t no more?
No more, sir.
Of gold, t’amalgam with some six of mercury.
Away, here’s money. What will serve?
Ask him, sir.
How much?
Give him nine pound:—you may give him ten.
Yes, twenty, and be cozened, do.
There ’tis.
Gives Face the money.
This needs not; but that you will have it so,
To see conclusions of all: for two
Of our inferior works
