The workes of Beniamin Ionson

Act II. Scene III.

MAMMON, SVBTLE, SVRLY, FACE.

GOod morrow, father.

SVB.

Gentle sonne, good morrow, And, to your friend, there. What is he, is with you?

MAM.

An heretique, that I did bring along, In hope, sir, to conuert him.

SVB.

Sonne, I doubt Yo'are couetous, that thus you meet your time I'the iust point: preuent your day, at morning. This argues something, worthy of a feare Of importune, and carnall appetite. Take heed, you doe not cause the blessing leaue you, With your vngouern'd hast. I should be sorry, To see my labours, now, e'ene at perfection, Got by long watching, and large patience, Not prosper, where my loue, and zeale hath plac'd 'hem. Which (heauen I call to witnesse, with your selfe, To whom, I haue pour'd my thoughts) in all my ends, Haue look'd no way, but vnto publique good, To pious vses, and deere charitie, No growne a prodigie with men. Wherein If you, my sonne, should now preuaricate, And, to your owne particular lusts, employ So great, and catholique a blisse: be sure, A curse will follow, yea, and ouertake Your subtle, and most secret wayes.

MAM.

I know, sir, You shall not need to feare me. I but come, To ha'you confute this gentleman.

SVR.

Who is, Indeed, sir, somewhat caustiue of beliefe Toward your stone: would not be gull'd.

SVB.

Well, sonne, All that I can conuince him in, is this, The worke is done: Bright SOL is in his robe. We haue a med'cine of the triple Soule, The glorified spirit. Thankes be to heauen, And make vs worthy of it. Ulen spiegel.

FAC.

Anone, sir.

SVB.

Looke well to the register,

And let your heat, still, lessen by degrees, To the Aludels.

FAC.

Yes, sir.

SVB.

Did you looke O'the Bolts-head yet?

FAC.

Which on D. sir?

SVB.

I, What's the complexion?

FAC.

Whitish.

SVB.

Infuse vinegar, To draw his volatile substance, and his tincture: And let the water in Glasse E. be feltred, And put into the Gripes egge. Lute him well; And leaue him clos'd in balneo.

FAC.

I will, sir.

SVR.

What a braue language here is? next to canting?

SVB.

I'haue another worke; you neuer saw, sonne, That, three dayes since, past the Philosophers wheele, In the lent heat of Athanor; and's become Sulphur o'nature.

MAM.

But 'tis for me?

SVB.

What need you? You haue inough, in that is, perfect.

MAM.

O, but —

SVB.

Why, this is couetise!

MAM.

No, I assure you, I shall employ it all, in pious vses, Founding of colledges, and grammar schooles, Marrying yong virgins, building hospitalls, And now, and then, a church.

SVB.

How now?

FAC.

Sir, please you, Shall I not change the feltre?

SVB.

Mary, yes. And bring me the complexion of Glasse B.

MAM.

Ha' you another?

SVB.

Yes, sonne, were I assur'd Your pietie were firme, we would not want The meanes to glorifie it. But I hope the best: I meane to tinct C. in sand-heat, to morrow, And giue him imhibition.

MAM.

Of white oile?

SVB.

No, sir, of red. F. is come ouer the helme too, I thanke my Maker, in S. MARIES bath, And shewes lac Virginis. Blessed be heauen. I sent you of his faeces there, calcin'd. Out of that calx, I' ha' wonne the salt of MERCVRY.

MAM.

By powring on your rectified water?

SVB.

Yes, and reuerberating in Athanor. How now? What colour saies it?

FAC.

The ground black, sir.

MAM.

That's you crowes-head?

SVR.

Your cocks-comb's, is't not?

SVB.

No, 'tis not perfect, would it were the crow. That worke wants some-thing.

SVR.

(O, I look'd for this. The hay is a pitching.)

SVB.

Are you sure, you loos'd 'hem I' their owne menstrue?

FAC.

Yes, sir, and then married 'hem, And put 'hem in a Bolts-head, nipp'd to digestion, According as you bad me; when I set The liquor of MARS to circulation, In the same heat.

SVB.

The processe, then, was right.

FAC.

Yes, by the token, sir, the Retort brake, And what was sau'd, was put into the Pellicane,

And sign'd with HERMES seale.

SVB.

I thinke 'twas so. We should haue a new amalgama.

SVR.

(O, this ferret Is ranke as any pole-cat.)

SVB.

But I care not. Let him e'ene die; we haue enough beside, In embrion. H ha's his white shirt on?

FAC.

Yes, sir, Hee's ripe for inceration: He stands warme, In his ash-fire. I would not, you should let Any die now, if I might counsell, sir, For lucks sake to the rest. It is not good.

MAM.

He saies right.

SVR.

I, are you bolted?

FAC.

Nay, I know't, sir, I'haue seene th'ill fortune. What is some three ounces Of fresh materialls?

MAM.

Is't no more?

FAC.

No more, sir, Of gold, t'amalgame, with some sixe of Mercurie.

MAM.

Away, here's money. What will serue?

FAC.

Aske him, sir.

MAM.

How much?

SVB.

Giue him nine pound: you may gi'him ten.

SVR.

Yes, twentie, and be cossend, doe.

MAM.

There 'tis.

SVB.

This needs not. But that you will haue it, so, To see conclusions of all. For two Of our inferiour workes, are at fixation. A third is in ascension. Goe your waies. Ha' you set the oile of Luna in kemia?

FAC.

Yes, sir.

SVB.

And the philosopers vinegar?

FAC.

I.

SVR.

We shall haue a sallad.

MAM.

When doe you make proiection?

SVB.

Sonne, be no hastie, I exalt our med'cine, By hanging him in balneo vaporoso; And giuing him solution; then congeale him; And then dissolue him; then againe congeale him; For looke, how oft I iterate the worke, So many times, I adde vnto his vertue. As, if at first, one ounce conuert a hundred, After his second loose, hee'll turne a thousand; His third solution, ten; his fourth, a hundred. After his fifth, a thousand thousand ounces Of any imperfect mettall, into pure Siluer, or gold, in all examinations, As good, as any of the naturall mine. Get you your stuffe here, against after-noone, Your brasse, your pewter, and your andirons.

MAM.

Not those of iron:

SVB.

Yes. You may bring them, too. Wee'll change all mettall's.

SVR.

I beleeue you, in that.

MAM.

Then I may send my spits?

SVB.

Yes, and your racks.

SVR.

And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, and hookes? Shall he not?

SVB.

If he please.

SVR.

To be an asse.

SVB.

How, sir!

MAM.

This gent'man, you must beare withall. I told you, he had no faith.

SVR.

And little hope, sir,

But, much lesse charitie, should I gull my selfe.

SVB.

Why, what haue you obseru'd, sir, in our art, Seemes so impossible?

SVR.

But your whole worke, no more. That you should hatch gold in a fornace, sir, As they doe egges, in Egypt!

SVB.

Sir, doe you Beleeue that egges are hatch'd so?

SVR.

If I should?

SVB.

Why, I thinke that the greater miracle. No egge, but differs from a chicken, more, Then mettalls in themselues.

SVR.

That cannot be. The egg's ordain'd by nature, to that end: And is a chicken in potentia.

SVB.

The same we say of lead, and other mettalls, Which would be gold, if they had time.

MAM.

And that Our art doth furder.

SVB.

I, for 'twere absurd To thinke that nature, in the earth, bred gold Perfect, i' the instant. Something went before. There must be remote matter.

SVR.

I, what is that?

SVB.

Mary, we say—

MAM.

I, now it heats: stand Father. Pound him to dust—

SVB.

It is, of the one part, A humide exhalation, which we call Materia liquida, or the vnctuous water; On th'other part, a certaine crasse, and viscous Portion of earth; both which, concorporate, Doe make the elementarie matter of gold: Which is not, yet, propria materia, But commune to all mettalls, and all stones. For, where it is forsaken of that moysture, And hath more drynesse, it becomes a stone; Where it retaines more of the humid fatnesse, It turnes to sulphur, or to quick-siluer: Who are the parents of all other mettalls. Nor can this remote matter, sodainly, Progresse so from extreme, vnto extreme, As to grow gold, and leape ore all the meanes. Nature doth, first, beget th'imperfect; then Proceedes shee to the perfect. Of that ayrie, And oily water, mercury is engendred; Sulphure o'the fat, and earthy part: the one (Which is the last) supplying the place of male, The other of the female, in all mettalls. Some doe beleeue hermaphrodeitie, That both doe act, and suffer. But, these two Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensiue. And, euen in gold, they are; for we doe find Seedes of them, by our fire, and gold in them:

And can produce the species of each mettall More perfect thence, then nature doth in earth. Beside, who doth not see, in daily practice, Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, waspes, Out of the carcasses, and dung of creatures; Yea, scorpions, of an herbe, being ritely plac'd: And these are liuing creatures, far more perfect, And excellent, then mettalls.

MAM.

Well said, father! Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument, Hee'll bray you in a morter.

SVR.

'Pray you, sir, stay. Rather, then I'll be brai'd, sir, I'll beleeue, That Alchemie is a pretty kind of game, Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to cheat a man, With charming.

SVB.

Sir?

SVR.

What else are all your termes, Whereon no one o'your writers grees with other? Of your elixir, your lac virginis, Your stone, your med'cine, and your chrysosperme, Your sal, your sulphur, and your mercurie, Your oyle of height, your tree of life, your bloud, Your marchesite, your tutie, your magnesia, Your toade, your crow, your dragon, and your panthar, Your sunne, your moone, your firmament, your adrop, Your lato, azoch, zernich, chibrit, heautarit, And then, your red man, and your white woman, With all your broths, your menstrues, and materialls, Of pisse, and egge-shells, womens termes, mans bloud, Haire o'the head, burnt clouts, chalke, merds, and clay, Poulder of bones, scalings of iron, glasse, And worlds of other strange ingredients, Would burst a man to name?

SVB.

And all these, nam'd, Intending but one thing: which art our writers Vs'd to obscure their art.

MAM.

Sir, so I told him, Because the simple idiot should not learne it, And make it vulgar.

SVB.

Was not all the knowledge Of the Egyptians writ in mystick symboles? Speake not the Scriptures, oft, in parables? Are not the choisest fables of the Poets, That were the fountaines, and first springs of wisedome, Wrapt in perplexed allegories?

MAM.

I vrg'd that, And clear'd to him, that SISIPHVS was damn'd To roule the ceaslesse stone, onely, because

Dol is seene.

He would haue made ours common. Who is this?

SVB.

God's precious—What doe you meane? Goe in, good lady, Let me intreat you. Where's this varlet?

FAC.

Sir?

SVB.

You very knaue! doe you vse me, thus?

FAC.

Wherein, sir?

SVB.

Goe in, and see, you traitor. Goe.

MAM.

Who is it, sir?

SVB.

Nothing, sir. Nothing.

MAM.

What's the matter? good, sir! I haue not seene you thus distemp'red. Who is't?

SVB.

All arts haue still had, sir, their aduersaries, But ours the most ignorant. What now?

FAC.

'Twas not m;y fault, sir, shee would speake with you.

SVB.

Would she, sir? Follow me.

MAM.

Stay, Lungs.

FAC.

I dare not, sir.

MAM.

How! 'Pray thee stay?

FAC.

She's mad, sir, and sent hether—

MAM.

Stay man, what is shee?

FAC.

A lords sister, sir. (Hee'll be mad too.

MAM.

I warrant thee.) Why sent hether?

FAC.

Sir, to be cur'd.

SVB.

Why, raskall!

FAC.

Loe you. Here, sir.

MAM.

'Fore-god, a BRADAMANTE, a braue piece.

SVR.

Hart, this is a bawdy-house! I'll be burnt else.

MAM.

O, by this light, no. Doe not wrong him. H'is Too scrulous, that way. It is his vice. No, h'is a rare physitian, doe him right. An excellent Paracelsian! and has done Strange cures with minerall physicke. He deales all With spirits, he. He will not heare a word Of GALEN, or his tedious recipe's. How now, Lungs!

FAC.

Softly, sir, speake softly. I meant To ha' told your worship all. This must not heare.

MAM.

No, he will not be gull'd; let him alone.

FAC.

Y'are very right, sir, shee is a most rare schollar; And is gone mad, with studying BRAVGHTONS workes. If you but name a word, touching the Hebrew, Shee falls into her fit, and will discourse So learnedly of genealogies, As you would runne mad, too, to heare her, sir.

MAM.

How might one doe t'haue conference with her, Lungs?

FAC.

O, diuers haue runne mad vpon the conference. I doe not know, sir: I am sent in hast, To fetch a violl.

SVR.

Be not gull'd, sir MAMMON.

MAM.

Wherein? 'Pray yee, be patient.

SVR.

Yes, as you are. And trust confederate knaues, and bawdes, and whores.

MAM.

You are too foule, beleeue it. Come, here, Ulen. One word.

FAC.

I dare not, in good faith.

MAM.

Stay, knaue.

FAC.

H'is extreme angrie, that you saw her, sir.

MAM.

Drinke that. What is shee, when shee's out of her fit?

FAC.

O, the most affablest creature, sir! so merry! So pleasant! shee'll mount you vp, like quick-siluer, Ouer the helme; and circulate, like oyle, A very vegetall: discourse of state, Of mathematiques, bawdry, any thing—

MAM.

Is shee no way accessible? no meanes,

No trick, to giue a man a tast of her — wit — Or so? — Ulen.

FAC.

I'll come to you againe, sir.

MAM.

SVRLY, I did not thinke, one o' your breeding Would traduce personages of worth.

SVR.

Sir EPICVRE, Your friend to vse: yet still, loth to be gull'd. I doe not like your philosophicall bawdes. Their stone is lecherie inough, to pay for, Without this bait.

MAM.

'Hart, you abuse your selfe. I know the lady, and her friends, and meanes, The originall of this disaster. Her brother H'as told me all.

SVR.

And yet, you n'ere saw her Till now?

MAM.

O, yes, but I forgot. I haue (beleeue it) One o' the trecherou'st memories, I doe thinke, Of all mankind.

SVB.

What call you her, brother?

MAM.

My lord— He wi' not haue his name knowne, now I thinke on 't.

SVR.

A very trecherous memorie!

MAM.

O' my faith—

SVR.

Tut, if you ha' it not about you, passe it, Till we meet next.

MAM.

Nay, by this hand, 't is true. Hee's one I honour, and my noble friend, And I respect his house.

SVR.

Hart! can it be, That a graue sir, a rich, that has no need, A wife sir, too, at other times, should thus With his owne oathes, and arguments, make hard meanes To gull himselfe? And, this be your elixir, Your lapis mineralis, and your lunarie, Giue me your honest trick, yet, at primero, Or gleeke; and take your lutum sapientis, Your menstruum simplex: I'll haue gold, before you, And, with lesse danger of the quick-siluer; Or the hot sulphur.

FAC.

Here's one from Captain FACE, sir, Desires you meet him i' the Temple-church, Some halfe houre hence, and vpon earnest businesse. SIr, if you please to quit vs, now; and come, Againe, within two houres: you shall haue My master busie examining o' the workes; and I will steale you in, vnto the partie, That you may see her conuerse. Sir, shall I say, You'll meet the Captaines worship?

SVR.

Sir, I will. But, by attorney, and to a second purpose. Now, I am sure, it is a bawdy-house; I'll sweare it, were the Marshall here, to thanke me: The naming this Commander, doth confirme it. Don FACE! Why, h' is the most autentique dealer I' these commodities! The Superintendent To all, the queinter traffiquers, in towne.

He is their Visiter, and do's appoint Who lyes with whom; and at what houre; what price; Which gowne; and in what smock; what fall; what tyre. Him, will I proue, by a third person, to find The subtilties of this darke labyrinth: Which, if I doe discouer, deare sir MAMMON, You'll giue your poore friend leaue, though no Philosopher, To laugh: for you that are, 'tis thought, shall weepe.

FAC.

Sir. He do's pray, you'll not forget.

SVR.

I will not, sir. Sir EPICVRE, I shall leaue you?

MAM.

I follow you, streight.

FAC.

But doe so, good sir, to auoid suspicion. This gent'man has a par'lous head.

MAM.

But wilt thou, Ulen, Be constant to thy promise?

FAC.

As my life, sir.

MAM.

And wilt thou insinuate what I am? and praise me? And say I am a noble fellow?

FAC.

O, what else, sir? And, that you'll make her royall; with the stone, An Empresse; and your selfe king of Bantam.

MAM.

Wilt thou doe this?

FAC.

Will I, sir?

MAM.

Lungs, my Lungs! I loue thee.

FAC.

Send your stuffe, sir, that my master May busie himselfe, about proiection.

MAM.

Th'hast witch'd me, rogue: Take, goe.

FAC.

Your iack, & all, sir.

MAM.

Thou art a villaine—I will send my iack; And the weights too. Slaue, I could bite thine eare. Away, thou dost not care for me.

FAC.

Not I, sir?

MAM.

Come, I was borne to make thee, my good weasell; Set thee on a bench: and, ha' thee twirle a chaine With the best lords vermine, of'hem all.

FAC.

Away, sir.

MAM.

A Count, nay, a Count-palatine—

FAC.

Good sir, goe.

MAM.

Shall not aduance thee, better: no, nor faster.