BEleeu't I will.

Thy worst. I fart at thee.

Ha' you your wits? Why Gentlemen! for loue—

Sirah, I'll strip you—

What to do? licke figs

Out at my—

Rogue, Rogue, out of all your sleights.

Nay, look ye! Soueraigne, General, are you Madmen?

O, let the wild sheepe loose. Ile gumme your silkes

With good strong water, an'you come.

Will you haue

The neighbours heare you? Will you betray all?

Hearke, I heare some body.

Srah.

I shall marre

All that the Taylor has made, if you approach.

You most notorious whelpe, you insolent slaue,

Dare you doe this?

Yes faith, yes faith.

Why! who

Am I, my Mungrill? Who am I?

I'll tell you,

Since you know not your selfe.

Speake lower, Rogue.

Yes. You were once (time's not long past) the good,

Honest, plaine, liuerie-three-pound-Thrum; that kept

Your Maisters worships house, here, in the Friers,

For the vacations.

Will you be so loud?

Since, by my meanes, translated Suburb-Captaine.

By your meanes, Doctor Dog?

Within mans memory,

All this, I speake of.

Why, I pray you, haue I

Beene countenanc'd by you? or you, by me?

Doe but collect, Sr. where I met you first.

I doe not heare well.

Not of this, I thinke it.

But I shall put you in minde, Sr. at Pie-Corner,

Taking your meale of steeme in, from Cookes stalls

Where, like the Father of Hunger, you did walke

Piteously costiue with your pinch'd horne-nose,

And your complexion, of the Romane wash,

Stuck full of blacke, and melancholique wormes,

Like poulder cornes, shot, at th'Artillery-yard.

I wish, you could aduance your voice, a little.

When you went pinn'd vp, in the seuerall ragges,

Yo'had rak'd, and pick'd from dunghils, before day,

Your feete in mouldy slippers, for your kibes,

A felt of rugg, and a thin thredden cloake,

That scarce would couer your no-buttockes.

So Sr.

When all your Alchemye, and your Algebra,

Your Mineralls, Vegetalls, and Animalls,

Your Coniuring, Cosning, and your dosen of Trades

Could not relieue your corps, with so much linnen

Would make you tinder, but to see a fire;

I ga'you count'nance, credit for your Coales,

Your Stilles, your Glasses, your Materialls,

Built you a Fornace, drew you Customers,

Aduanc'd all your blacke Arts; lent you, beside.

A house to practise in.

Your Masters house?

Where you haue studied the more thriuing skill

Of Bawdry, since.

Yes, in your Masters house.

You, and the Rats, here, kept possession.

Make it not strange. I know, you were one, could keepe

The Buttry-hatch still lock'd, and saue the chippings,

Sell the dole-beere to Aqua-vitæ men,

The which, together with your Christmasse vailes,

At Post, and Paire, your letting out of Counters,

Made you a pretty stocke some twenty markes,

And gaue you credit, to conuerse with cobwebs,

Here, since your Mistresse death hath broke vp house.

You might talke softlier, Raskall.

No, you Scarabe,

I'll thunder you, in peeces. I will teach you

How to beware, to tempt a Fury'againe

That carries tempest in his hand, and voyce.

The Place has made you valiant.

No, your Clothes.

Thou Vermine haue I tane thee, out of dung,

So poore, so wretched, when no liuing thing

Would keepe thee company, but a Spider, or worse?

Raysd thee from broomes, and dust, and watring pots?

Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee

I'the third region, the high state of grace?

Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with paines

Would twise haue wonne me the Philosophers worke?

Put thee in words, and fashion? made thee sit

For more then ordinary fellowships?

Giu'n thee thy othes, thy quarrelling dimensions?

Thy rules, to cheate at horse-race, cock-pit, cardes,

Dice, or what euer gallant tincture, else?

Made thee a Second, in mine owne great Art?

And haue I this for thanke? Doe'you rebell?

Doe you flye out, i'the proiection?

Would you be gone now?

Gentlemen, what meane you?

Will you marre all?

Slaue, thou hadst had no Name,

Will you vndoe your selues, with ciuill warre?

Neuer beene knowne, past Equi Clibanum,

The heate of horse-dung, vnder ground, in cellars,

Or an Ale-house, darker then deafe Iohn's: bene lost

To all mankinde, but Laundresses, and Tapsters, (raigne?

Had not I beene.

Do'you know who heares you, Soue-

Srah—

Nay Generall, I thought you were ciuill.

I shall turne desperate, if you grow thus loud.

And hang thy selfe, I care not.

Hang thee, Colliar,

And all thy pots, and pans, in picture I will,

Since thou hast mou'd me.

ô, this'll ore-throw all.

Write thee vp Baud, in Paules; haue all thy trickes

Of cosning with a hollow cole, dust, scrapings,

Searching for things lost, with a siue, and sheeres,

Erecting figures, in your rowes of Houses,

And taking in of shadowes, with a glasse,

Told in red letters: And a face, cut for thee,

Worse then Gamaliel Ratsey's,

Are you sound?

Ha'you your senses, Masters?

I will haue

A Booke, but barely reckoning thy Impostures,

Shall proue a true Philosophers stone, to Printers.

Away you Trencher-Raskall.

Out you Dog-leach,

The vomit of all prisons—

Will you be

Your owne destructions, Gentlemen?

Still spew'd out

For lying too heauy o'the basket.

Cheater.

Bawd.

Cowherd.

Coniurer.

Cutpurse.

Witch.

O me.

We are ruin'd lost. Ha'you no more regard

To your reputations? Where's your iudgement? Slight,

Haue yet, some care of me, o'your Republique.

Away this Brach. I'll bring thee, Rogue, within

The Statute of Sorcerie, tricesimo tertio

Of Harry the eight: I and (perhaps) thy neck

Within a noose, for laundring gold, and barbing.

You'll bring your head within a cocks-combe, will you?

And you Sr, with your Menstrue, gather it vp.

S'death you abhominable payre of Stinkards

Leaue off your barking, and grow one againe,

Or, by the light that shines, I'll cut your throates.

I'll not be made a prey vnto the Marshall,

For nere a snarling Dog-bolt o'you both.

Ha'you together cossen'd all this while,

And all the world, and shall it now be said

Yo'haue made most courteous shift, to cossen your selues?

You will accuse him? You will bring him in

Within the Statute? Who shall take your word,

A whoresonne, vpstart, Apocryphall Captayne,

Whom not a Puritane, in Black-Friers, will trust

So much, as for a fether? And you, too,

Will giue the cause, forsooth? You will insult,

And clayme a primacie, in the diuisions?

You must be chiefe? as if you, onely, had

The poulder to proiect with? and the worke

Were not begunne out of æqualitie?

The venter tripartite? All things in common?

Without prioritie? S'death, you perpetuall Curres,

Fall to your couples, againe, and cossen kindly,

And heartily, and louingly, as you should,

And loose not the beginning of a Terme,

Or, by this hand, I shall grow factious too

And, take my part, and quit you.

Tis his fault,

He euer murmures, and obiects his paines,

And sayes, the weight of all lies vpon him.

Why so it do's.

How does it? Doe not we

Sustaine our parts?

Yes, but they are not æquall.

Why, if your part exceede to day, I hope

Ours may, to morrow, match it.

I, they may.

May, murmuring Mastiffe, I, and do. Gods will!

Helpe me to thrattell him.

Dorothee, Mistresse Dorothee,

O'ds precious, I'll doe any thing. What doe you meane?

Because o'your Fermentation, and Cibation?

Not I, by heauen.

Your Sol & Luna: help me.

Would I were hang'd then. I'll conforme my selfe.

VVill you Sr. doe so then, and quickly. Sweare.

What should I sweare?

To leaue your faction Sr.

And labour, kindly, in the commune worke.

Let me not breath, if I meant ought, beside.

I onely vs'd those speeches, as a spurre

To him.

I hope we need no spurres Sr. Doe we?

Slid, proue to day, who shall sharke best.

Agreed.

Yes, and worke close, and friendly.

Slight the knot

Shall grow the stronger, for this breach, with me.

Why so, my good Babounes! Shall we goe make

A sort of sober, sciruy, præcise Neighbours,

(That scarse haue smil'd twise, sin'the King came in)

A feast of laughter, at our follies? Raskalls,

Would runne themselues from breath, to see me ride,

Or you t'haue but a Hole, to thrust your heads in,

For which you should pay Eare-rent: No, Agree.

And may Don Prouost ride a feasting, long,

In his old veluet ierken, and staynd scarfes,

(My noble Soueraigne, and worthy Generall)

Ere we contribute a new cruell garter

To his most worsted worship.

Royall Dol!

Spoken like Claridiana, and thy selfe.

For which at supper, thou shalt sit in triumph,

And not be stil'd Dol common, but Dol proper,

Dol singular: the longest cut, at night.

Shall draw thee for his Dol particular.

Who's that? one rings. To the windo' Dol. Pray heau'n,

The Master doe not trouble vs, this quarter.

O, feare not him. While there dies one, a weeke,

O'the plague, hee's safe, from thinking, toward London.

Beside, hee's busie at his hop-yardes, now,

I had a letter from him. If he doe,

Hee'll send such word, for ayring o'the house

As you shall haue sufficient time, to quit it.

Though we breake vp a fortnight, 'tis no matter.

Who is it, Dol?

A fine young Quodling.

O

My Lawyers Clearke, I lighted on, last night,

In Hol'bourne, at the Dagger. He would haue

(I told you of him) a Familiar,

To rifle with, at horses, and winne cuppes.

O, let him in.

Stay. Who shall doo't?

Get you

Your robes on. I will meete him, as going out.

And what shall I do?

Not be seene, away.

Seeme you very reseru'd.

Inough.

God be w'you, Sr.

I pray you, let him know that I was here.

His name is Dapper. I would gladly haue stayd, But——

CAptaine, I am here.

Who's that? Hee's come, I think,

Good faith, Sr, I was going away.

In truth,

I am very sory, Captayne.

But I thought

Sure, I should meet you.

I am very glad.

I'had a sciruy Writ, or two, to make,

And I had lent my watch last night, to one

That dines, to day, at the Shrieffs: and so was robd

Of my passe-time Is this the Cunning-man?

This is his worship.

Is he a Doctor?

Yes.

And ha'you broke with him, Captaine?

I.

And how?

Faith, he doe's make the matter, Sr. so dainty,

I know not what to say.

Not so, good Captaine.

Would I were fayrely rid on't, beleeue me.

Nay, now you grieue me Sr. Why should you wish so?

I dare assure you. I'll not be vngratefull.

I cannot thinke you will, Sr. But the Lawe

Is such a thing — And then he sayes, Reade's matter

Falling so lately.

Reade? He was an Asse,

And dealt Sr with a Foole.

It was a Clearke, Sr.

A Clearke?

Nay, heare me, Sr. you know the Law

Better, I thinke

I should Sr. and the danger.

You know I shew'd the Statute to you?

You did so.

And will I tell, then? By this hand of flesh,

Would it might neuer wright good Court hand, more,

If I discouer. What doe you thinke of me, (here.

That I am a Chiause?

What's that?

The Turke was,

As one would say, Doe you thinke I am a Turke?

I'll tell the Doctor so.

Doe, good sweet Captaine.

Come, noble Doctor,'pray thee, let's preuaile,

This is the Gentleman, and he is no Chiause.

Captaine, I haue return'd you all my answere.

I would doe much Sr. for your loue—But this

I neither may, nor can.

Tut, doe not say so.

You deale, now, with a noble fellow, Doctor,

One that will thanke you, richly, and h'is no Chiause:

Let that Sr. moue you.

Pray you, forbeare.

He has

Foure Angels, here.

You doe me wrong good Sr.

Doctor, wherein? To tempt you with these spirits?

To tempt my art, and loue, Sir, to my perill.

Fore heau'n, I scarse can thinke you are my friend,

That so would draw me to apparant danger.

I draw you? A horse draw you, and a halter,

You, and your Flies together.

Nay, good Captaine.

That know no difference of men.

Good words Sr.

Good deeds, Sr. Doctor Dogges-mouth. Slight I bring

No cheating Clim-o'the-Cloughs, or Claribels. (you

That looke as bigge as fiue, and fifty, and flush,

And spit out secrets, like hot Custard

Captayne.

Nor any melancholike vnder-Scribe,

Shall tell the Vicar: but, a speciall Gentle,

That is the Heire to forty markes, a yeare,

Consorts with the small Poets of the time,

Is the sole hope of his old Grand-Mother,

That knowes the Law, and writes you sixe fayre Hands,

Is a fine Clearke, and has his Ciphring perfect,

Will take his oth, o'the Greeke Testament,

If need be, in his pocket: and can court

His Mistresse, out of Ouid.

Nay, deare Captayne.

Did you not tell me, so?

Yes, but I'ld ha'you

Vse Mr. Doctor, with some more respect.

Hang him proud Stagg, with his broad veluet head.

But, for your sake, I'ld choake ere I would change

An article of breath, with such a Puck-fist.

Come let's be gone.

Pray you, le'me speake with you.

His worship calls you, Captayne.

I am sorry,

I e're imbarqu'd my selfe, in such a busines.

Nay good Sr. He did call you.

Will he take, then?

First, heare me—

Not a syllable, 'lesse you take.

Pray ye'Sr.

Vpon no termes, but an Assumpsit.

Your Humor must be law.

Why now Sr. talke.

Now, I dare heare you with mine honour. Speake. (spring,

So may this Gentleman too.

Why Sr.

No whi-

'Fore Heau'n, you doe not apprehend the losse

You doe your selfe, in this.

Wherein? For what?

Mary, to be so'importunate for one,

That, when he has it, will vndoe you all:

He'll winne vp all the money i'the Towne.

How!

Yes. And blow vp Gamster, after Gamster,

As they doe crackers, in a Puppit-play.

If I doe giue him a Familiar,

Giue you him all you play for; neuer set him:

For he will haue it.

Y'are mistaken, Doctor.

Why, he do's aske one but for Cuppes, and Horses,

A rifling Fly: none o'your great Familiars.

Yes, Captayne, I would haue it, for all games.

I told you so.

'Slight, that's a new businesse!

I vnderstood you, a tame Bird, to flye

Twise in a Terme, or so; on Friday nights,

When you had left the Office: for a Nagg,

Of forty, or fifty shillings.

I'tis true, Sir,

But I doe thinke, now, I shall leaue the Lawe,

And therefore.

Why this changes quite the case!

Do'you thinke, that I dare moue him?

If you please, Sir,

All's one to him, I see.

What? for that money?

I cannot with my Conscience. Nor should you

Make the request, me thinkes.

No, Sir, I meane

To adde consideration.

VVhy, then, Sir,

I'll try. Say, that it were for all games, Doctor?

I say, then, not a mouth shall eatefor him

At any Ordinary, but o'the Score,

That is a gaming mouth, conceiue me.

Indeed!

He'll draw you all the treasure of the realme.

If it be set him.

Speake you this from art?

I, Sir, and reason too; the ground of art.

H'is o'the onely best complexion

The Queene of Fairie loues.

VVhat! is he!

Peace.

He'll ouer-heare you. Sir, should she but see him—

VVhat?

Do not you tell him.

VVill he win at

The Spirits of dead Holland, liuing Isaac, (cardes too?

You'ld sweare, were in him: such a vigorous luck

As cannot be resisted. Slight he'll put

Sixe o'your Gallants, to a cloake, indeed.

A strange successe, that some man shall be borne too!

Hee heares you, man.

Sir, Ile not be ingratefull.

Faith, I haue a confidence in his good nature:

You heare, he sayes, he will not be ingratefull.

VVhy, as you please, my venture followes yours.

Troth, doe it Doctor. Thinke him trusty, and make him.

Hee may make vs both happy in an hower:

Winne some fiue thousand pound, and send vs two on't.

Beleeue it, and I will, Sir.

And you shall, Sir.

You haue heard all?

No, what was't? Nothing, I Sir.

Nothing?

A little, Sir.

Well, a rare Starre

Raign'd, at your birth.

At mine Sir? No.

The Doctor

Sweares that you are—

Nay Captayn, Yo'll tell all, now.

Allied to the Queene of Faerie.

Who? that I am?

Beleeue it, no such matter.

Yes, and that

Yo'were borne with a Caule o'your head.

Who sayes so?

Come.

You know it well inough, though you dissemble it.

I fac, I doe not. You are mistaken.

How!

Sweare by your fac? and in a thing, so knowne

Vnto the Doctor? How shall we, Sir, trust you

I'the other matter? Can we euer thinke,

When you haue wonne fiue, or sixe thousand pound,

Yo'll send vs shares in't, by this rate?

By Gad, Sir,

I'll winne ten thousand pound, and send you halfe.

I fac is no othe.

No, no, he did but iest.

Goe too. Goe, thanke the Doctor. He is your friend.

To take it so.

I thanke his VVorship.

So?

Another Angell.

Must I?

Must you? Slight,

VVhat else is Thankes? Will you be triuiall? Doctor.

VVhen must he come, for his Familiar?

Shall I not ha'it with me?

O, good Sir,

There must a world of ceremonies passe,

You must be bath'd, and fumigated, first;

Besides, the Queene of Faerie do's not rise,

Till it be noone.

Not, if she daunc'd, to night.

And she must blesse it.

Did you neuer see

Her royall Grace, yet?

Whom?

Your Aunt of Faerie?

Not, since she kist him, in the cradle, Captayne,

I can resolue you that.

VVell, see her Grace,

What ere it cost you, for a thing that I know.

It will be somewhat hard to compasse: But,

How euer, see her. You are made, beleeue it,

If you can see her. Her Grace is a lone woman,

And very rich, and if she take a phant'sye,

She will doe strange things. See her, at any hand.

'Slid, she may hap to leaue you all she has:

It is the Doctors feare.

How will't be done, then?

Let me alone take you no thought. Doe you

But say to me. Captayne, I'll see her Grace.

Captain, I'll see her Grace.

Inough.

Who's there?

Anone. (Conduct him forth, by the back way)

Sir, against one a Clock, prepare your selfe.

Till when you must be fasting; onely, take

Three drops of vinegar, in, at your nose;

Two at your mouth; and one, at eyther eare;

Then, bath your fingers endes; and, wash your eyes;

To sharpen your fiue Senses; and, cry Hum,

Thrise; and then Buz, as often; and then, Come.

Can you remember this?

I warrant you.

Well, then, away. 'Tis, but your bestowing

Some twenty nobles, 'mong her Graces Seruants;

And, put on a cleane shirt: You doe not know

What grace her Grace may doe you in cleane linnen.

Come in. Good wiues, I pray you forbeare me, now.

Troth I can doe you no good, till afternoone.

What is your name, say you, Abel Drugger?

Yes, Sir.

A seller of Tobacco?

Yes, Sir.

'Vmh.

Free of the Grocers?

I, and't please you.

Well.

Your busines, Abel?

This, and't please your worship,

I'am a yong beginner, and am building

Of a new shop, and't like your worship ; iust,

At corner of a street: (Here's the plot on't.)

And I would know, by art, Sir, of your Worship,

Which way I should make my dore, by Necromantie.

And, where my Shelues. And, which should be for Boxes,

And, which for Potts. I would be glad to thriue, Sir.

And, I was wish'd to your Worship, by a Gentleman,

One Captaine Face, that say's you know mens Planets,

And their good Angels, and their bad.

I doe

If I doe see'hem.

VVhat! my honest Abel?

Thou art well met, here.

Troth, Sir, I was speaking,

Iust, as your VVorship came here, of your VVorship.

I pray you, speake for me to Mr. Doctor.

He shall doe any thing. Doctor, doe you heare?

This is my friend, Abel, an honest fellow,

He lets me haue good Tobacco, and he do's not

Sophisticate it, with Sack-lees, or Oyle,

Nor washes it in Muscadell, and Graines,

Nor buries it, in grauell, vnder ground,

Wrap'd vp in greasie leather, or piss'd cloutes:

But keepes it in fine Lilly-pots, that open'd,

Smell like conserue of Roses, or French Beanes.

He has his Maple block, his siluer tongs,

Winchester pipes, and fire of Iuniper.

A neate, spruce-honest-fellow, and no Goldmith.

H'is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on.

Already, Sir, ha'you found it? Lo'thee Abel!

And, in right way to'ward riches.

Sir.

This Summer.

He will be of the Clothing of his company.

And, next spring, call'd to the Scarlet. Spend what he can.

What, and so little beard?

Sir, you must thinke,

He may haue a receipt, to make hayre come.

But he'll be wise, preserue his youth, and fine for't:

His fortune lookes for him, another way.

'Slid, Doctor, how canst thou know this so soone?

I'am amus'd, at that!

By a rule, Captayne,

In Metaposcopie, which I doe worke by,

A certaine Starre i'the forehead, which you see not.

Your Chest-nut, or your Oliue-colourd face

Do's neuer fayle: and your long Eare doth promise.

I knew't, by certaine spotts too, in his teeth,

And on the nayle of his Mercurial finger.

Which finger's that?

His little finger, Looke.

Yo'were borne vpon a Wensday.

Yes, indeed, Sir.

The Thumbe, in Chiromantie, we giue Venus;

The Fore-finger to Ioue; the Midst, to Saturne;

The Ring to Sol, the Least, to Mercurie:

Who was the Lord, Sir, of his Horoscope,

His House of life being Libra. Which foreshew'd,

He should be a Marchant, and should trade with Ballance.

VVhy, this is strange! Is't not, honest Nab?

There is a Ship now, comming from Ormu's,

That shall yeeld him, such a Commoditie

Of Drugs. This is the West, and this the South?

Yes, Sir.

And those are your two sides?

I, Sir.

Make me your Dore, then, South; your broad side, West:

And, on the East-side of your shop, aloft,

Write Mathlaj, Tarmiel, and Baraborat;

Vpon the North-part, Rael, Velel, Thiel,

They are the names of those Mercurian spirits,

That doe fright flyes from boxes.

Yes, Sir,

And

Beneath your threshold, bury me a Loade-stone

To draw in Gallants, that weare spurres: The rest,

They'll seeme to follow.

That's a secret, Nab.

And, on your stall, a Puppet, with a vice,

And a Court-fucus, to call Citie-Dames.

You shall deale much, with Mineralls.

Sir, I haue,

At home, already —

I, I know, you'haue Arsnike,

Vitriol, Sal Tartre, Argaile, Alkaly,

Cinoper. I know all. This fellow, Captayne,

Will come, in time, to be a great Distiller,

And giue a say (I will not say directly,

But very fayre) at the Philosophers stone.

Why, how now Abel! Is this true?

Good Captayne,

What must I giue?

Nay, Ile not counsell thee.

Thou hearst, what wealth, he sayes, spend what thou canst,

Th'art like to come too.

I would gi'him a Crowne.

A Crowne? And toward such a fortune? Hart,

Thou shalt rather gi'him thy shop. No Gold about thee?

Yes, I haue a Portague, I ha'kept this halfe yeare.

Out on thee, Nab, 'Slight, there was such an offer,

'Shalt keepe't no longer, I'll gi'it him for thee?

Doctor, Nab prayes your Worship, to drinke this, and sweares

He will appeare more gratefull, as your skill

Do's raise him in the world.

I would intreat

Another fauor of his Worship.

What is't, Nab?

But, to looke ouer, Sir, my Almanack,

And crosse out my Ill-dayes, that I may neither

Bargaine, nor trust vpon them.

That he shall, Nab.

Leaue it, it shall be done, 'gainst afternoone.

And a direction for his shelues.

Now, Nab?

Art thou well pleas'd, Nab?

Thank, Sir, both your Wor-

ships.

Away.

Why, now, you smoaky persecuter of Nature,

Now, doe you see, that something's to be done,

Beside your Beech-coale, and your Cor'siue waters,

Your Crosse-lets, Crucibles, and Cucurbites?

You must haue stuffe, brought home to you, to worke on?

And, yet, you thinke, I am at no expense.

In searching out these vaines, then following 'hem,

Then trying'hem out. 'Fore God, my intelligence

Costs me more money, then my share oft comes too,

In these rare workes.

You'are pleasant, Sir. How now?

VVHat say's, my dainty Dolkin?

Yonder Fish-wife

Will not away. And there's your Giantesse,

The Baud of Lambeth.

Hart, I cannot speake with'hem.

Not, afore night, I haue told'hem, in a voice,

Thorough the Trunke, like one of your Familiars.

But I haue spied Sir Epicure Mammon.

Where?

Comming along, at far end of the lane,

Slow of his feete, but earnest of his tongue,

To one, that's with him.

Face, Goe you, and shift,

Dol, you must presently make ready, too.

Why, what's the matter?

O, I did looke for him

With the sunnes rising. 'Meruaile, he could sleepe.

This is the day, I am to perfect for him

The Magisterium, our great worke, the Stone;

And yeeld it, made, into his hands: Of which,

He has, this month, talk'd, as he were possess'd on't,

And, now, hee's dealing peeces on't, away.

Me thinkes, I see him, entring Ordinaries,

Dispensing for the poxe; and Plaguy-houses,

Reaching his dose; Walking More-fields for Lepers;

And offring Citizens Wiues Pomander Bracelets,

As his preseruatiue, made of the Elixir;

Searching the Spittle, to make old Baudes yong;

And the High waies, for Beggars, to make rich.

I see no end of his labours. He will make

Nature asham'd, of her long sleepe, when Art,

Who's but a Step-dame, shall doe more, then shee,

In her best loue to Man-kinde, euer could.

If his Dreame last, Hee'l turne the Age, to Gold.

COme on, Sir. Now, you set your foote, on Shore

In Nouo Orbe; Here's the rich Peru:

And there within, Sir, are the golden Mines

Great Salomon's Ophia. He was sayling to't

Three yeares, but we haue reach'd it in ten Months.

This is the day, wherein, to all my friends,

I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich.

This day, you shall be Spectatissimi.

You shall no more deale with the hollow Die,

Or the fraile Card. No more be at charge of keeping

The Liuery-punke, for my yong Heyre, that must

Seale, at all howers, in his shirt. No more

If he deny, ha' him beaten to't, as he is

That brings him the commoditie. No more

Shall thirst of satten, or the couetous hunger

Of veluet entrayles, for a rude-spun cloake,

To be displayd at Madam Augusta's, make

The sonnes of Sword, and Hazard fall before

The golden Calfe, and on their knees, whole nights,

Commit Idolatry with Wine, and Trumpets

Or goe a feasting, after Drum and Ensigne.

No more of this. You shall start vp yong Vice-roies,

And haue your Punques, and Punquettees, my Surly.

And vnto thee, I speake it first, Be rich.

Where is my Subtle, there? Within Hough?WITHIN Sir,

Hee'll come to you, by and by.

That's his Fire-drake,

His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffes his coales,

Till he firke Nature, vp, in her owne center.

You are not faithfull, Sir. This night, I'll change

All, that is mettall, in my house, to gold.

And, early in the morning, will I send

To all the Plumbers, and the Peuterers,

And buy their Tinne, and Lead vp: and to Lothbury,

For all the copper.

What, and turne that too?

Yes, and I'll purchase Deuonshire, and Cornwaile,

And make them perfect Indies. You admire now?

No faith.

But when you see th'effects of the great medicine!

Of which one part proiected on a hundred

Of Mercurie, or Venus, or the Moone,

Shall turne it, to as many of the Sunne;

Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum:

You will beleeue me.

Yes, when I see't, I will.

But, if my eyes doe cossen me so (and I

Giuing'hem no occasion) sure, I'll haue

A Whore, shall pisse'hem out next day.

Ha! Why?

Doe you thinke, I fable with you? I assure you,

He that has once the Flower of the Sunne,

The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir,

Not onely can doe that, but by it's vertue,

Can confer honour, loue, respect, long life,

Giue safty, valure: yea, and victory,

To whom he will. In eight, and twenty dayes,

I'll make an Old man, of fourescore, a Childe.

No doubt hee'is that already.

Nay, I meane,

Restore his yeares, renew him, like an Eagle,

To the fifth age; make him get Sonnes, and Daughters,

Yong Giants; as our Philosophers haue done

(The antient Patriarkes afore the flood)

But taking, once a weeke, on a kniues point,

The quantitie of a grayne of Mustard, of it:

Become stout Marsses, and beget yong Cupids.

The decay'd Vestall's of Pickt-hatch would thanke you,

That keepe the fire a-liue, there.

'Tis the secret

Of Nature, naturiz'd 'gainst all infections,

Cures all diseases, comming of all causes,

A month's griefe, in a day; a yeares, in twelue:

And, of what age so euer, in a month.

Past all the doses, of your drugging Doctors.

I'll vndertake, withall, to fright the Plague

Out o'the kingdome, in three months.

And I'll

Be bound, the Players shall sing your praises, then,

Without their Poets.

Sir, I'll doo't. Meane time,

I'll giue away so much, vnto my man,

Shall serue th'whole Citie, with preseruatiue,

Weekely, each house his dose, and at the rate —

As he that built the Water-worke, dos with water,

You are incredulous.

Faith, I haue a humor,

I would not willingly be gull'd. Your Stone

Cannot transmute me.

Pertinax,Surly,

Will you beleeue Antiquitie? Recordes?

I'll shew you a Booke, where Moses, and his Sister,

And Salomon haue written, of the Art;

I, and a Treatise penn'd by Adam.

How!

O'the Philosophers stone, and in high Dutch.

Did Adam write, Sir, in high Dutch?

He did:

Which proues it was the Primitiue tongue.

What Paper?

On Cedar board.

O that, indeed (they say)

Will last 'gainst wormes.

'Tis like your Irish wood

'Gainst Cobwebs. I haue a peece of Iasons fleece, too,

Which was no other, then a Booke of Alchemie,

Writ in large sheepe-skin, a good fat Ram-Vellam.

Such was Pythagora's thigh, Pandora's tub;

And, all that fable of Medeas charmes,

The manner of our worke: The Bulls, our Fornace,

Still breathing fire; our Argent-viue, the Dragon:

The Dragons teeth, Mercurie sublimate,

That keepes the whitenesse, hardnesse and the biting;

And they are gather'd, into Iason's helme,

(Th' Alembeke) and then sow'd in Mars his field,

And, thence, sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd.

Both this, th'Hesperian Garden, Cadmus story,

Ioue's shower, the boone of Midas, Argus eyes,

Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,

All abstract Riddles of our Stone. How now?

DOe we succeed? Is our day come? and hold's it?

The euening will set red vpon you, Sir,

You haue colour for it, crimson, the red Ferment

Has done his office. Three howers hence, prepare you

To see proiection.

Pertinax, my Surly,

Againe, I say to thee, aloud: Be rich.

This day, thou shalt haue Ingots: and, to morrow,

Giue Lords th' affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right?

Blushes the Bolts-head?

Like a Wench with Child, Sir,

That were, but now, discouer'd to her Master.

Excellent witty Lungs. My onely care is,

Where to get stuffe, inough now, to proiect on

This towne will not halfe serue me.

No Sir? Take

The couering of o'Churches.

That's true

Yes.

Let'hem stand bare, as doe their Auditorie,

Or cap 'hem, new, with Shingles.

No, good Thatch.

Thatch will lie light, vpo' the rafters Lungs.

Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the Fornace;

I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe,

Lost in the embers; and repayre this brayne,

Hurt with the fume o'the Mettalls.

I haue blowne, Sir,

Hard for your Worship; throwne by many a Coale,

When t'was not Beech; weigh'd those I put in, iust,

To keepe your heate, still euen; These bleard eyes

Haue wak'd, to reade your seuerall colours, Sir,

Of the pale Citron, the greene Lion, the Crow,

The Peacocks tayle, the plumed Swan.

And, lastly,

Thou hast descried the Flower, the Sanguis Agni?

Yes Sir.

Where's Master?

At's prayers, Sir, hee,

Good man, he's doing his deuotions,

For the successe.

Lungs, I will set a period,

To all thy labours: Thou shalt be, the Master

Of my Seraglia.

Good, Sir.

But doe you heare?

I'll geld you'Lungs.

Yes, Sir.

For I doe meane

To haue a list of Wiues, and Concubines,

Æquall with Salomon; 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 sawst it blood?

Both bloud, & spirit, Sir.

I will haue all my beds, blowne vp; not stuft:

Downe is too hard. And then, mine Oual Roome,

Fill'd with such pictures, as Tiberius tooke

From Elephantis: and dull Aretine

But coldly imitated. Then, my Glasses,

Cut in more subtill angles, to disperse,

And multiply the figures, as I walke

Naked betweene my Succubæ. My mistes

I'le haue of perfume, vapor'd' bout the roome,

To loose our selues in; and my bathes, like pittes

To fall into: from whence, we will come forth,

And roule vs dry in Gossamour, and Roses.

Is it ariu'd at Ruby? Where I spie

A wealthy Cittizen, or rich Lawyer,

Haue a sublim'd pure Wife, vnto that fellow

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

And I shall carry it.

No, I'll ha' no baudes,

But Fathers, and Mothers. And my flatterers,

Shall be the best, and grauest of Diuines,

That I can get for money. My mere fooles,

Eloquent Burgesses, and then my Poets

The same that writ so subtly of the Fart,

Whom I will entertaine, still, for that Subiect.

The few, that would giue out themselues, to be

Court, and Towne-Stallions, and, each where, belye

Ladies, who'are knowne most innocent, for them;

Those will I begge, to make me Eunuchs of:

And they shall fanne me, with ten Estrich Tayles

A piece, made in a plume, to gather winde.

We will be braue, Puffe, now we ha'the Med'cine.

My Meate, shall all come in, in Indian shells,

Dishes of Agat, set in Gold, and studded

With Emeralds, Saphires, Hjacinths, and Rubies.

The tongues of Carpes, Dormise, and Camels heeles,

Boyl'd i'the spirit of Sol, and dissolu'd Pearle,

(Apicius diet, 'gainst the Epilepsie)

And I will eate these broaths, with spoones of Amber,

Headed with Diamant, and Carbuncle.

My foote-Boy shall eate Phesants, caluerd Salmons,

Knots, Godwits, Lamprey's: I my selfe will haue

The beards of Barbels, seru'd, in stead of sallades;

Oyld Mushromes; and the swelling vnctuous papps

Of a fat pregnant Sow, newly cut off,

Drest with an exquisite, and poynant sauce;

For which, Ile say vnto my Cooke, There's gold,

Goe forth, and be a Knight.

Sir, I'll goe looke

A little, how it heightens.

Doe. My Shirts

I'll haue of Taffata-sarsnet, soft, and light

As Cobwebs; and for all my other rayment

It shall be such, as might prouoke the Persian:

Were he to teach the world riot, a new.

My Gloues of Fishes, and Birds-skinnes, perfum'd

With Gummes of Paradise, and Easterne ayre —

And do'you thinke to haue the Stone, with this?

No, I doe thinke, t'haue all this, with the Stone.

Why, I haue heard, he must be Homo frugi,

A pious, holy, and religious man,

One free from mortall sinne, a very Virgin.

That makes it, Sir, he is so. But I buy it.

My venter brings it me. He, honest wretch,

A notable, superstitious, good soule,

Has worne 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 prophane word, afore him: 'Tis poyson.

GGod morrow, Father.

Gentle Sonne, good morrow,

And, to your friend, there. What is he, is with you?

An Heretique, that I did bring along,

In hope, Sir, to conuert him.

Sonne, I doubt

Yo'are couetous, that thus you meete 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, eene 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 endes,

Haue look'd no way, but vnto publique good,

To pious vses, and deare Charitie

No growne a prodigie with men. Wherein

If you, my Sonne, should, now, præuaricate,

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.

I know, Sir,

You shall not need to feare me. I but come,

To ha'you confute this Gentleman.

Who is,

Indeed, Sir, somewhat caustiue of beleefe

Toward your Stone. Would not be gull'd.

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. Vlen spiegle.

Anone Sir.

Looke well to the Register,

And let your heate, still, lessen by degrees

To the Aludels.

Yes Sir.

Did you looke

O'the Bolts-head yet?

Which on D. Sir?

I.

What's the complexion?

Whitish.

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.

I will, Sir.

What a braue language here is? next to Canting?

I'haue another worke; you neuer saw, Sonne,

That, three dayes since, past the Philosophers wheele,

In the lent heate of Athanor; and's become

Sulphur o'nature.

But 'tis for mee?

What need

you?

You haue inough, in that is, perfect.

O, but—

Why this is Couetise!

No, I assure you,

I shall employ it all, in pious vses,

Founding of Colleges, and Grammar Schooles,

Marrying yong Virgins, building Hospitals,

And now, and then a Church.

How now.

Sir please you

Shall I not change the feltre?

Mary, yes.

And bring me the complexion of Glasse B.

Ha'you another?

Yes Sonne, were I assur'd

Your piety were firme, we would not want

The meanes to glorifie it. But I hope the best:

I meane to tinct C. in sand-heate, to morrow,

And giue him imbibition.

Of white oyle?

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 fæces there, calcin'd.

Out of that calx, I'ha'wonne the salt of Mercurie.

By pouring on your rectefied water?

Yes, and reuerberating in Athanor.

How now? What colour sayes it?

The Ground black, Sir.

That's your Crowes head.

Your Cockscomb's, is't not?

No, 'Tis not perfect, would it were the Crow.

That worke wants something.

O, I look'd for this.

The hay is a pitching.

Are you sure, you loos'd'hem

I'their owne menstrue?

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 heate.

The processe, then, was right.

Yes, by the token, Sir, the Retort brake,

And what was sau'd, was put into the Pellicane,

And sign'd with Hermes seale.

I thinke 'twas so.

We should haue a new Amalgama.

O, this Ferret

Is ranke as any Pole-cat.

But I care not.

Let him e'ene dy; wee haue enough, beside,

In Embrion. H. ha's his white shirt on?

Yes, Sir,

Hee's ripe for inceration; He stands warme,

In his ash-fire. I would not, you should let

Any dye now, if I might councell Sir,

For lucks-sake to the rest. It is not good.

He sayes right.

I, are you bolted?

Nay,

I know't Sir,

I'haue seene th'ill fortune. What is some three Ounces

Of fresh materials?

Is't no more?

No more, Sir,

Of Gold, t'amalgame, with some sixe of Mercurie .

Away, here's Money. What will serue.

Aske him, Sir.

How much?

Giue him nine pound, you may

gi'him ten.

Yes twenty, and be cossend, Doe.

There 'tis.

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 wayes,

Ha'you set the Oyle of Luna in Kemia?

Yes, Sir.

And the Philosophers vinegar?

I.

We shal haue a sallad.

When do you make proiection?

Sonne, be not hasty, 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, he'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 afternoone,

Your Brasse, your Pewter, and your Andirons.

Not those of iron?

Yes. You may bring them, too.

We'll change all mettall's.

I beleeue you, in that.

Then I may send my Spitts?

Yes, and your Racks.

And Dripping-pannes, and Pot-hangers, and Hookes?

Shall he not?

If he please.

To be an Asse.

How Sir!

This Gent' man, you must beare withall.

I told you, he had no faith.

And little hope, Sir,

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

Why what haue you obseru'd, Sir, in our Art,

Seemes so impossible?

But your whole worke, no more.

That, you should hatch gold in a Fornace, Sir,

As they doe egges in Egypt.

Sir, doe you

Beleeue that egges are hatch'd so?

If I should?

Why, I thinke that the greater Miracle.

No Egge, but differs from a Chicken, more,

Then Mettalls in themselues.

That cannot be.

The Egg's ordain'd by Nature, to that end:

And is a Chicken, in Potentia.

The same we say of Lead, and other Mettalls,

Which would be Gold, if they had time.

And that

Our Art doth furder.

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.

I, what is that?

Mary, we say.

I, now it heates, stand Father.

Pound him to Dust.

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 elementary 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 Mettals.

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 ayrye,

And oyly 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 finde

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 dayly practise,

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 Mettall.

Well said, Father!

Nay, if he take you in hand, Sir, with an argument,

Hee'll bray you in a Morter.

Pray you, Sir, stay.

Rather, then I'll be bray'd, Sir, I'll beleeue,

That Alchemie is a pretty kinde of Game,

Somewhat like Tricks o'the Cards, to cheat a man,

With charming.

Sir?

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 Blood,

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 Broathes, your Menstrues, and Materialls,

Of Pisse, and Egge-shells, Womens termes, Mans blood,

Hayre o'the head, burnt Cloutes, Chalke, Merds, and Clay,

Poulder of bones, scalings of Iron, glasse.

And worlds of other strange Ingredients,

Would burst a man to name.

And all these, nam'd,

Intending but one thing: which art our Writers

Vs'd to obscure their Art.

Sir, so I told him.

Because the simple Idiot should not learne it,

And make it vulgar.

Was not all the knowledge

Of the Ægyptians writ in mystick Symboles?

Speake not the Scriptures oft in Parables?

Are not the choysest Fables of the Poets,

That were the Fountaines, and first Springs of Wisedome,

Wrapt in perplexed Allegories?

I vrg'd that.

And clear'd to him, that Sisiphus was damn'd

To roule the ceaslesse stone, onely, because

He would haue made ours common. Who is this?

God's precious — What doe you meane? Goe in, good Lady;

Let me entreat you. Where's this Varlet?

Sir?

You very knaue. Doe you vse mee, thus?

Wherein

Sir?

Goe in, and see, you traytor. Goe.

who is it, Sir?

Nothing Sir. Nothing.

What is the matter? Good Sir!

I haue not seene you thus distemp'red. Who is't?

All Artes haue still had, Sir, their aduersaries,

But ours the most ignorant. What now?

'Twas not my fault, Sir, she would speake with you.

Would she Sir? Follow me.

stay Lungs.

I dare

not Sir.

Stay man, what is she?

A Lords Sister, Sir.

How! Pray thee stay?

She's mad Sir, & sent hether—

(He'll be mad too. MAM. I warrant thee.) Why sent hether?

Sir, to be cur'd.

Why Raskall!

Loe you. Here Sir.

'Fore-God, a Bradamante, a braue piece!

Hart, this is a baudy-House. I'll be burnt else.

O, by this light, no. Doe not wrong him. H'is

Too scrupulous, that way: It is his vice.

No, h'is a rare Phisition, doe him right.

An excellent Paracelsian! and has done

Strange cures with minerall phisick. He deales all

With spirits, he. He will not heare a Word

Of Galen, or his tedious Recipee's.

How now, Lungs!

Softly, Sir, speake softly. I meant

To ha' told your Worship all. This must not heare,

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

Y'are very right. Sir, she is a most rare schollar:

And is gone mad, with studying Broughtons workes.

If you but name a word, touching the Hebrew,

She falls into her fit, and will discourse

So learnedly of Genealogies,

As you would runne mad, too, to heare her, Sir,

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

O, diuers haue runne mad vpon the Conference.

I doe not know, Sir: I am sent in hast,

To fetch a Viale.

Be not gull'd, Sir Mammon.

Wherein? 'Pray ye, be patient

Yes, as you are.

And trust confederate Knaues, and Baudes, and Whores.

You are too foule, beleeue it. Come here, Zephyrus.

One word.

I dare not, in good faith.

Stay, Knaue.

H'is extreme angry, that you saw her, Sir.

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

O the most affablest Creature, Sir! so mery!

So pleasant! she'll mount you vp, like quick-siluer,

Ouer the helme; and circulate, like oyle;

A very Vegetall: discourse of State,

Of Mathematiques, Baudry, any thing—

Is she no way accessible? no meanes,

No trick, to giue a man a tast of her —

Wit? or so?

I'll come to you againe, Sir.

Surly, I did not thinke, one o'your breeding

Would traduce personages of worth.

Sir Epicure,

Your friend to vse. Yet, still, loth to be gull'd.

I doe not like your Philosophicall baudes.

Their Stone is lechery inough, to pay for,

Without this bayte.

'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.

And yet, you ne're saw her

Till now?

O yes, but I forgot. I haue (beleeue it)

One o'the treacherou'st memories, I doe thinke,

Of all mankinde.

What call you her Brother?

My

Lord—

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

A very trecherous memory.

O'my faith—

Tut if you ha'it not about you, passe it,

Till we meete next.

Nay, by this hand, 'tis true.

He's one I honour, and my noble friend,

And I respect his House.

Hart! Can it be,

That a graue Sir, a rich, that has no need,

A wise 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.

Here's one from Captaine Face, Sir,

Desires you meete him i'the Temple-Church,

Some halfe houre hence, and vpon earnest busines.

Sir, if you please to quit vs, now; and come,

Againe, within two howers: You shall haue

My Master busie examining o'the workes,

And I will steale you in, vnto the party,

That you may see her Conuerse. Sir, Shall I say,

You'll meete the Captaines Worship?

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 lies with whom; and at what hower; what price;

Which gowne; and in what smock; what fall; what tire.

Him will I proue, by a third person, to finde

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.

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

I will not, Sir.

Sir Epicure, I shall leaue you.

I follow you, streight.

But doe so, good Sir, to auoide suspicion.

This Gent'man has a par'lous head.

But wilt thou

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 royall, with the Stone,

An Empresse; and your selfe King of Bantam.

Wilt thou doe this?

Will I Sir?

Lungs,

my Lungs,

I loue thee.

Send your stuffe Sir, that my Master

May busie himselfe, about proiection.

Th'hast witch'd me, Rogue: Take, Goe.

Your Iack

and all Sir.

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.

Not I Sir?

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.

Away Sir.

A Count, nay a Count-Palatine—

Good Sir, goe.

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

HAs he bitt? Has he bit?

And swallow'd too, my Subtle.

I ha' giu'n him line, and now he playes, I faith.

And shall we twitch him?

Thorough both the gills.

A Wench is a rare bayt, with which a Man

No sooner's taken, but he straight firkes mad.

Dol, my Lord Whachums Sister, you must now

Beare your selfe statelich.

O, let me alone.

I'll not forget my race, I warrant you.

I'll keepe my distance, laugh, and talke aloud;

Haue all the trickes of a proud sciruy Lady:

And be as rude 'as her woman.

Well said, sanguine.

But will he send his Andirons?

His Iack too;

And's iron Shooing-horne. I ha'spoke to him. Well,

I must not loose my wary Gamster, yonder.

O Monsieur Caution, that will not be gull'd?

I, if I can strike a fine hooke into him, now,

The Temple-church, there I haue cast mine angle.

Well, pray for me. I'll about it.

What, more Gudgeons!

Dol, scout, scout; stay Face, you must goe to the dore.

'Pray God, it be my Anabaptist. Who is't Dol?

I know him not. He lookes like a Gold-end man.

Gods so! 'tis he, he said he would send. What call you him?

The sanctified Elder, that should deale

For Mammons, Iack, and Andirons! Let him in.

Stay, help me of, first, with my gowne. Away

Ma-dame, 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 Amstredam; the exil'd Saints: that hope

To raise their discipline, by it. I must vse him

In some strange fashion, now, to make him admire me.

VVHere is my Drudge?

Sir.

Take away the

Recipient,

And rectifie your Menstrue, from the Phlegma.

Then poure it, 'o the Sol, in the Cucurbite,

And let'hem macerate, together.

Yes, Sir.

And saue the ground?

No. Terra damnata

Must not haue entrance, in the worke. Who are you?

A faithfull Brother, if it please you.

What's that?

A Lullianist? a Ripley? Filius artis?

Can you sublime, and dulcefie, calcine?

Know you the sapor pontick? sapor stipstick?

Or, what is Homogene, or Heterogene?

I vnderstand no Heathen language, truely.

Heathen, you Knipper-doling? Is Ars sacra,

Or Chrysopœia, or Spagirica,

Or the Pamphysick, or Panarchick knowledge,

A Heathen language?

Heathen Greeke, I take it.

How? Heathen Greeke?

All's Heathen, but the Hebrew.

S'rah, my Varlet, stand you forth, and speake to him

Like a Philosopher: Answere, i'the language.

Name the vexations, and the Martyrizations

Of Mettalls, in the Worke.

Sir, Putrefaction,

Solution, Ablution, Sublimation,

Cohobation, Calcination, Ceration, and

Fixation.

This is Heathen Greeke, to you, now?

And when comes Viuification?

After Mortification.

What's Cohobation?

'Tis the powring on

Your Aqua Regis, and then drawing him off,

To the trine circle of the seuen spheares.

What's the proper passion of Mettalls?

Malleation.

What's your Vltimum supplicium auri?

Antimonium.

This's Heathen Greek, to you? And, what's your Mercury?

A very Fugitiue, he will be gone, Sir.

How know you him?

By his viscositie,

His oleositie, and his suscitabilitie.

How do you sublime him?

With the calce of Egge-shels,

White Marble, Talck.

Your Magisterium, now?

What's that?

Shifting, Sir, your elements,

Dry into cold, cold into moyst, moist in-

To hot, hot into dry.

This's Heathen Greeke to you, still?

Your Lapis Philosophicus?

'Tis a Stone, and not

A Stone, a spirit, a soule, and a body;

Which, if you doe dissolue, it is dissolu'd,

If you coagulate, it is coagulated,

If you make it to flye, it flyeth.

Inough.

This's Heathen Greeke, to you? What are you Sir.

Please you, a Seruant of the exilde Brethren,

That deale with Widdowes, and with Orphanes goods;

And make a iust account, vnto the Saints:

A Deacon.

O, you are sent from Mr. Wholsome,

Your Teacher?

From Tribulation Wholsome,

Our very zealous Pastor.

Good. I haue

Some Orphanes goods to come here.

Of what kind, Sir?

Peuter, and Brasse, Andirons, and Kitchin ware,

Mettalls, that we must vse our med'cine on:

Wherein the Brethren may haue a penn'orth.

For ready money.

Were the Orphanes Parents

Sincere professors?

Why doe you aske?

Because

We then are to deale iustly, and giue (in truth)

Their vtmost valew.

'Slid, you'ld cossen, else,

And, if their Parents were not of the Faithfull?

I will not trust you, now I thinke on't,

Till I ha' talk'd with your Pastor. Ha'you brought money

To buy more Coales?

No surely.

No? How so?

The Brethren bid me say vnto you, Sir.

Surely, they will not venter any more,

Till they may see proiection.

How!

Yo' haue had,

For the lnstruments, as bricks, and lome, and glasses,

Already thirty pound; and, for Materialls,

They say, some ninety more: And, they haue heard, since,

That one, at Hiedelberg, made it, of an Egge

And a small paper of Pinne-dust.

What's your name?

My name is Ananias.

Out, the Varlet

That cossend the Apostles! Hence, away,

Flee Mischiefe; had your holy Consistory

No name to send me, of another sound;

Then wicked Ananias? Send your Elders,

Hither, to make atonement for you, quickly,

And gi' me satisfaction; or out goes

The fire: and downe th' Alembekes, and the Fornace.

Piger Henricus, or what not. Thou wretch,

Both Sericon, and Bufo, shall be lost,

Tell'hem. All hope of rooting out the Bishops,

Or th' Antichristian Hierarchie shall perish,

If they stay threescore minutes. The Aqueitie,

Terreity, and Sulphureitie

Shall runne together againe, and all be annull'd

Thou wicked Ananias. This will fetch 'hem,

And make 'hem hast towards their gulling more.

A man must deale like a rough Nurse, and fright

Those, that are froward, to an appetite.

H'is busie with his spirits, but we'll vpon him.

How now! What Mates? What Baiards ha'we here?

I told you he would be furious. Sir, Here's Nab,

Has brought yo' another peece of Gold, to looke on:

(Wee must appease him. Giue it me) and prayes you

You would deuise (what is it Nab?)

A signe, Sir.

I, a good lucky one, a thriuing Signe, Doctor.

I was deuising now.

'Slight, doe not say so,

He will repent he ga' you any more.

What say you to his Constellation, Doctor?

The Ballance?

No, that way is stale, and Common.

A Townes-Man, borne in Taurus, giues the Bull;

Or the Bulls-head: In Aries, the Ram.

A poore deuise. No. I will haue his Name

Form'd in some mystick character; whose radii,

Striking the senses of the passers by,

Shall, by a virtuall influence, breed affections,

That may result vpon the party ownes it:

As thus-

Nab.

He first shal haue a Bell, That's Abell;

And, by it, standing one, whose name is Dee,

In a rugg Gowne; There's D. and Rug, that's Drug:

And, right anenst him, a Dog snarling Er;

There's Drugger, Abel Drugger. That's his signe.

And here's now Mystery, and Hieroglyphick.

Abell, thou art made.

Sir, I doe thanke his Worship.

Sixe o'thy legges more, will not doe it, Nab.

He has brought you a pipe of Tobacco, Doctor.

Yes, Sir.

I haue another thing, I would impart—

Out with it Nab.

Sir, there is lodg'd hard by me

A rich yong Widdow.

Good! a Bona roba?

But nineteene, at the most.

Very good, Abel.

Mary sh'is not in fashion, yet; she weares

A hood: but't stands a cop.

No matter Abel.

And, I doe, now and then, giue her a fucus,

What dost thou deale, Nab?

I did tell you, Captaine.

And physick too sometime, Sir, for which she trusts me

With all her minde. Shee's come vp here, of purpose

To learne the fashion.

Good, His match too! on Nab.

And she do's strangely long to know her fortune.

Gods lid, Nab! Send her to the Doctor, hether.

Yes, I haue spoke to her of his Worship, already:

But shee's afrayd, it will be blowne abroad

And hurt her Marriage.

Hurt it? 'Tis the way

To heale it, if'twere hurt; to make it more

Follow'd and sought: Nab, thou shalt tell her this.

Shee'll be more knowne, more talk'd of, and your Widowes

Are ne'er of any price till they be famous;

Their Honour is their multitude of Sutors.

Send her, it may be thy good fortune. What?

Thou dost not know.

No, Sir, shee'll neuer mary

Vnder a Knight. Her brother has made a Vow.

What, and dost thou despayre, my little Nab,

Knowing, what the Doctor has set downe for thee,

And seeing so many, o'the Citie, dub'd?

One Glasse o'thy water, with a Madame I know

Will haue it done Nab. What's her brother? a Knight?

No, Sir, A Gentleman, newly, warme in 'his land, Sir,

Scarse cold in his one and twenty; that do's gouerne

His Sister, here: and is a Man himselfe

Of some three thousand a yeere, and is come vp

To learne to quarrell, and to liue by his wittes,

And will goe downe againe, and dye i'the Countrey.

How! to quarrell?

Yes, Sir, to carry Quarrells,

As Gallants doe, and manage 'hem, by line.

'Slid Nab. The Doctor is the onely man

In Christendome for him. He has made a Table,

With Mathematicall demonstrations,

Touching the Art of Quarrells. He will giue him

An Instrument to quarrell by. Goe, bring 'hem, both;

Him, and his Sister. And, for thee, with her

The Doctor happ'ly may perswade. Goe to.

'Shalt giue his Worship, a new Damaske suite

Vpon the premisses.

O good Captaine.

He shall,

He is the honestest fellow, Doctor. Say not,

No offers, bring the Damaske, and the Parties.

I'll try my power, Sir.

And thy will too, Nab.

'Tis good Tobacco this! What is't an ounce?

Hee'll send you a pound, Doctor.

O, no:

Hee

will do't.

It is the gooddest soule. Abell about it.

(Thou shalt know more anone. Away, be gone.)

A miserable Rogue, and liues with Cheese,

And has the wormes. That was the cause indeed

Why he came now. He dealt with me, in priuate,

To get a med'cine for 'hem.

And shall, Sir. This workes.

A wife, a wife, for one on'vs, my deare Subtle:

Wee'll eene draw lots, and he, that fayles, shall haue

The more in goods, the other has in tayle.

Rather the lesse. For she may be so light

She may want graynes.

I, or be such a burden,

A man would scarse endure her, for the whole.

Faith, best let's see her first, and then determine.

Content. But Doll must ha' no breath on't.

Mum.

Away, you to your Surly yonder, Catch him.

'Pray God I ha'not stayd too long.

I feare it.

THese Chastisements are common to the Saints,

And such rebukes th'Elect must beare, with patience;

They are the exercises of the Spirit,

And sent to tempt our fraylties.

In pure zeale,

I doe not like the man: He is a Heathen.

And speakes the language of Canaan, truely.

I thinke him a prophane person, indeed.

He beares

The visible marke of the beast, in his forehead.

And for his Stone, it is a worke of darknesse,

And, with Philosophie, blinds the eyes of man.

Good Brother, we must bend vnto all meanes,

That may giue furtherance, to the holy cause.

Which his cannot: The sanctified cause

Should haue a sanctified course.

Not alwaies necessary.

The Children of perdition are, oft times,

Made instruments euen of the greatest workes.

Beside, we should giue somewhat to mans nature,

The place he liues in, still about the Fire,

And fume of Mettalls, that intoxicate

The brayne of Man, and make him prone to passion.

Where haue you greater Atheists, then your Cookes?

Or more prophane. or cholerick then your Glasse-men?

More Antichristian then your Bell-founders?

What makes the Diuell so diuelish, I would aske you,

Sathan, our common enemy, but his being

Perpetually about the fire, and boyling

Brimstone, and Arsnike? We must giue, I say,

Vnto the motiues, and the stirrers vp

Of humors in the blood. It may be so.

When as the Worke is done, the Stone is made,

This heate of his may turne into a zeale,

And stand vp for the beauteous discipline,

Against the menstruous cloth, and ragg of Rome.

We must awayt his calling, and the comming

Of the good Spirit. You did fault, t' vpbraid him

With the Brethrens blessing of Heidelberg, waighing

What neede we haue, to hasten on the Worke,

For the restoring of the silenc'd Saints,

Which ne'er will be, but by the Philosophers Stone.

And, so a learned Elder, one of Scotland,

Assur'd me; Aurum potabile being

The onely med'cine, for the ciuill Magistrate,

T'incline him to a feeling of the cause:

And must be dayly vs'd, in the disease.

I haue not ædified more, truely, by man;

Not, since the beautifull light, first, shone on mee:

And I am sad my zeale hath so offended.

Let vs call on him, then.

The motion's good.

And of the Spirit; I will knock first: Peace be within.

O Are you come? 'Twas time. Your threescore minutes

Were at the last thred, you see, And, downe had gone

Furnus acediæ, Turris circulatorius,

Lembeke, Bolts-head, Retort, and Pellicane

Had all beene cinders. Wicked Ananias!

Art thou return'd? Nay then it goes downe, yet.

Sir, be appeased, Hee is come to humble

Himselfe in Spirit, and to aske your patience,

If too much zeale hath carried him, aside,

From the due path.

Why, this doth qualefie.

The Brethren had no purpose, verely,

To giue you the least greeuance: but are ready

To lend their willing hands, to any proiect

The Spirit, and you direct.

This qualefies more.

And, for the Orphanes goods, let them be valew'd,

Or what is needfull, else, to the holy Worke,

It shall be numbred: Here, by me, the Saints

Throw downe their purse before you.

This qualifies, most.

Why, thus it should be, now you vnderstand.

Haue I discours'd so vnto you, of our Stone?

And, of the good that it shall bring your cause?

Shew'd you, (beside the mayne of hiring forces

Abroad, drawing the Hollanders, your friends,

From the' Indies, to serue you, with all their Fleete)

That euen the med'cinall vse shall make you a faction,

And party in the Realme. As, put the case,

That some great Man, in state, he haue the Gout,

Why you but send three droppes of your Elixir,

You help him straight: There you haue made a Friend.

Another has the Palsey, or the Dropsie,

He takes of your incombustible stuffe,

Hee's yong againe: There you haue made a Friend.

A Lady, that is past the feate of body,

Though not of minde, and hath her face decay'd

Beyond all cure of painting; you restore

With the Oyle of Talck: There you haue made a Friend.

And all her friends. A Lord, that is a Leper,

A Knight, that has the bone-ache, or a Squire

That hath both these, you make 'hem smooth, and sound,

With a bare fricace of your med'cine: Still,

You increase your Friends.

I, 'tis very prægnant.

And, then, the turning of this Lawyers pewter

To plate, at Christ-masse.

Christ-tide, I pray you.

Yet, Ananias?

I haue done.

Or changing

His parcell guilt, to massy Gold. You cannot

But raise you Friends. With all, to be of power

To pay an armie, in the field; to buy

The King of France, out of his Realmes; or Spaine,

Out of his Indies: What can you not doe,

Against Lords Spirituall, or Temporall,

That shall oppone you?

Verely, 'tis true.

We may be temporall Lords, our selues, I take it.

You may be any thing, and leaue of to make

Long-winded exercises: or suck vp,

Your ha, and hum, in a tune. I not deny,

But such as are not graced, in a State,

May, for their endes, be aduerse in Religion,

And get a tune, to call the flocke together:

For (to say sooth) a tune do's much, with women,

And other phlegmatick people, It is your Bell.

Bells are prophane, a tune may be religious.

No warning with you? Then, farewell my patience.

'Slight, it shall downe: I will not be thus tortur'd.

I pray you, Sir.

All shall perish. I haue spoke it.

Let me finde grace, Sir, in your eyes; The man

He stands corrected: neither did his zeale

(But as your selfe) allow a tune, some-where.

Which, now, being to'ard the Stone, we shall not need.

No, nor your holy vizard, to winne Widdowes

To giue you Legacies; or make zealous Wiues

To rob their Husbands, for the common cause;

Nor take the start of Bandes, broke but one day,

And say, they were forfeited, by prouidence.

Nor shall you neede, ore night, to eate huge meales,

To celebrate your next dayes fast the better:

The whilst the Brethren, and the Sisters, humbled,

Abate the stiffenesse of the flesh; Nor cast

Before your hungry hearers, scrupulous bones,

As whether a Christian may hawke, or hunt;

Or whether, Matrons, of the holy Assembly,

May lay their haire out, or weare doublets,

Or haue that Idol Starch, about their linnen.

It is indeed an Idoll.

Minde him not, Sir.

I doe command thee, Spirit (of zeale, but trouble)

To peace within him. Pray you Sir, goe on.

Nor shall you need to libell 'gainst the Prelates,

And shorten so your eares, against the hearing

Of the next wire drawne Grace. Nor, of necessitie,

Rayle against playes, to please the Alderman,

Whose dayly Custard you deuoure. Nor lie

With zealous rage, till you are hoarse. Not one

Of these so singular artes. Nor call your selues,

By names of Tribulation, Persecution,

Restraint, Long-Patience, and such like, affected

By the whole Family, or Wood of you,

Onely for glory, and to catch the eare

Of the Disciple.

Truely, Sir, they are

Wayes, that the Godly Brethren haue inuented,

For propagation of the holy cause,

As very notable meanes; and whereby, also,

Themselues grow soone, and profitably famous.

O, but the Stone, all's idle to'it! nothing!

The art of Angels, Natures miracle,

The diuine secret, that doth flye in clouds,

From East to West: and whose Tradition

Is not from men but spirits.

I hate Traditions.

I doe not trust'hem.

Peace.

They are Popish, all.

I will not peace. I will not—

Ananias.

Please the prophane, to greeue the godly. I may not.

Well, Ananias, thou shalt ouercome.

It is an ignorant zeale, that haunts him, Sir.

But truely, else, a very faithfull Brother;

A Botcher: and a man, by reuelation,

That hath a competent knowledge of the Truth.

Has he a competent summe, there, i'the bagg,

To buy the goods, within? I am made Guardian,

And must, for Charitie, and Conscience sake,

Now, see the most be made, for my poore Orphane.

Though I desire the Brethren, too, good Gayners.

There, they are, within. When you haue view'd, & bought 'hem,

And tane the Inuentory of what they are,

They'are ready for proiection; there's no more

To doe; Cast on the med'cine: So much Siluer

As there is Tinne there, so much Gold as Brasse,

I'll gi' it you in, by waight.

But how long time,

Sir, must the Saints expect, yet?

Let me see,

How's the Moone, now? Eight, nine, ten dayes hence

He will be Siluer potate; then, three dayes,

Before he citronise: some fifteene dayes,

The Magisterium will be perfected.

About the second day, of the third weeke,

In the ninth Month?

Yes my good Ananias.

What will the Orphanes goods arise to, thinke you?

Some hundred Markes; as much as fill'd three Carres,

Vnladed now: you shall make sixe millions of'hem.

But I must ha'more coales laid in.

How!

Another load,

And then we ha' finish'd. We must now encrease

Our fire to Ignis ardens, we are past

Fimus equinus, Balnei, Cineris,

And all those lenter heates. If the holy Purse

Should, with this draught, fall low, and that the Saints

Doe need a present summe; I haue trick

To melt the Pewter, you shall buy now, instantly,

And, with a tincture, make you as good Dutch Dollers,

As any are in Holland

Can you so?

I, and shall bide the third examination.

It will be ioyfull tidings to the Brethren.

But you must cary it, secret

I, but stay,

This act of coyning, is it lawfull?

Lawfull?

We know no Magistrate Or, if we did,

This's forraine coyne.

It is no coyning, Sir.

It is but casting,

Ha? you distinguish well.

Casting of money may be lawfull.

'Tis, Sir.

Truely, I take it so.

There is no scruple

Sir, to be made of it; beleeue Ananias.

This case of conscience he is studied in.

I'll make a question of it, to the Brethren.

The Brethren shall approue it lawfull, doubt not.

Where shall't be done?

For that wee'l talke, anone.

There's some to speake with me. Goe in, I pray you,

And viewe the parcels. That's the Inuentory.

I'll come to you straight. Who is it? Face? Appeare.

HOw now? Good prise?

Good poxe. Yond' costiue

Cheater

Neuer came on.

How then?

I ha' walkd the round,

Till now, and no such thing.

And ha' you quit him?

Quit him? and Hell would quit him too, he were happy.

'Slight would you haue me stalke like a Mill-Iade,

All day, for one, that will not yeeld vs Graynes?

I know him of old.

O, but to ha' gull'd him,

Had beene a maystry.

Let him goe, black Boy,

And turne thee, that some fresh newes may possesse thee.

A noble Count, a Don of Spaine (my deare

Delicious compeere, and my party-baud)

Who is come hether, priuate, for his Conscience,

And brought munition with him, sixe great slopps,

Bigger then three Dutch Hoighs, beside round trunkes,

Furnish'd with Pistolets, and Peeces of eight,

Will straight be here, my Rogue, to haue thy Bath

That is the colour, and to make his battry

Vpon our Dol, our Castle, our Cinque-Port,

Our Douer Pire, our what thou wilt. Where is shee?

She must prepare perfumes, delicate linnen,

The bath in chiefe, a banquet, and her wit,

For she must feele his Epididimis.

Where is the Doxie?

I'll send her to thee:

And but dispatch my brace of little Iohn Leydens,

And come againe my selfe.

Are they within then?

Numbring the summe.

How much?

A hundred

markes, boy,

Why this's a lucky day. Ten pounds of Mammon?

Three o' my Clearke. A Portague o' my Grocer.

This o'the Brethren, beside Reuersions,

And States, to come i'the Widdow, and my Count.

My share, to day, will not be bought for forty —

What?

Pounds, dainty Dorothee, art thou so neare?

Yes, say Lo: Generall, how fares our Campe?

As, with the few, that had entrench'd themselues

Safe, by their discipline, against a world, Dol:

And laugh'd, within those trenches, and grew fat

With thinking on the booties, Dol, brought in

Dayly, by their small parties. This deare hower,

A doughty Don is taken, with my Doll;

And thou maist make his ransome, what thou wilt,

My Dousabell: He shall be brought here, fetter'd

With thy fayre lookes, before he see's thee, and throwne

In a Downe-bed, as darke as any Dungeon;

Where thou shalt keepe him waking, with thy Drum;

Thy Drum, my Dol; thy Drum; till he be tame

As the poore Black-birds were i'the great frost,

Or Bees are with a bason: and so hiue him

I'the Swan-skin Couerlid, and cambrick Sheetes,

Till he worke Honey, and Waxe, my little Gods-guift.

What is he, Generall.

An Adalantado,

A Grande, Girle Was not my Dapper here, yet?

No.

Nor my Drugger?

Neither.

A poxe

on 'hem,

They are so long a furnishing. Such Stinkards

Would not be seene, vpon these festiuall dayes.

How now! ha'you done?

Done. They are gone. The summe

Is here in Banque, my Face. I would, we knew

Another chapman, now, would buy 'hem outright.

'Slid, Nab shall doo't, against he ha' the Widdow,

To furnish houshould.

Excellent well thought on,

Pray God, he come.

I pray, he keepe away

Till our new businesse be o're-past.

But, Face,

How cam'st thou, by this secret Don? A Spirit

Brought me th'intelligence, in a paper, here,

As I was coniuring, yonder, in my Circle

For Surly: I ha' my Flies abroad. Your Bath

Is famous Subtle, by my meanes. Sweet Doll,

You must goe tune your Virginall, no loosing

O'the least time. And, doe you heare? good action.

Firke like a Flounder, kisse like a Scallop, close;

And tickle him with thy Mother-tongue. His great

Verdugo-ship has not a iot of language:

So much the easier to be cossin'd, my Dolly.

He will come here, in a hir'd Coach, obscure,

And our owne Coachman, whom I haue sent, as Guide,

No creature else. Who's that?

It i'not he?

O no, not yet this hower.

Who is't?

Dapper,

Your Clearke.

Gods will, then, Queene of Faerie,

On with your tire; and, Doctor, with your robes.

Lett's vs dispatch him, for Gods sake.

'Twill be long.

I warrant you, take but the QQ^s. I giue you,

It shall be briefe inough, 'Slight, here are more.

Abel, and I thinke, the angry Boy, the Heyre,

That faine would quarrell.

And the Widdow?

No,

Not that I see. Away. O Sir, you are welcome.

THe Doctor is within, a mouing for you;

I haue had the most adoe to winne him to it;

He sweares, you'll be the Dearling o'the Dice:

He neuer heard her Highnes doate, till now.

Your Aunt has giu'n you the most gracious words,

That can be thought on.

Shall I see her Grace?

See her, and kisse her too. What? honest Nab!

Ha'st brought the Damaske? Nab. No Sir, here's Tobacco.

'Tis Well done. Thou'lt bring the Damaske too?

Yes, here's the Gentleman, Captaine, Mr. Kastrill,

I haue brought to see the Doctor.

Where's the Widdow?

Sir, as he likes, his Sister (he sayes) shall come.

O, is it so? Good time. Is your name Kastrill, Sir?

I, and the best o'the Kastrills, I'lld be sory else,

By fifteene hundred, a yeare Where is this Doctor?

My mad Tobacco-Boy, here, tells me of one,

That can doe things. Has he any skill?

Wherein, Sir?

To cary a busines, manage a Quarrell, fayrely,

Vpon fit termes.

It seemes Sir, yo' are but yong

About the towne, that can make that a question.

Sir, not so yong, but I haue heard some speech

Of the angry Boyes, and seene'hem take Tobacco;

And in his shop: and I can take it too.

And I would faine be one of'hem, and goe downe

And practise i'the countrey.

Sir, for the Duello,

The Doctor, I assure you, shall informe you,

To the least shadow of a hayre: and shew you,

An Instrument he has, of his owne making,

Wherewith, no sooner shall you make report

Of any Quarrell, but he will take the Height on't,

Most instantly; and tell in what Degree,

Of saf'ty it lies in, or mortalitie.

And, how it may be borne, whether in a right line,

Or a halfe-circle; or may, else, be cast

Into an angle blunt, if not acute:

All this he will demonstrate. And then, Rules,

To giue, and take the Lie, by.

How? to take it?

Yes, in oblique, hee'll shew you; or in circle:

But neuer in diameter. The whole Towne

Study his Theoremes, and dispute them, ordinarily,

At the eating Academies.

But, dos he teach

Liuing, by the Witts, too?

Any thing, what euer.

You cannot thinke that subtilty, but he reades it.

He made me a Captaine; I was a starke Pimpe,

Iust o'your standing, 'fore I met with him:

It i'not two months since. I'll tell you his method.

First, Hee will enter you, at some Ordinarie.

No, I'll not come there. You shall pardon me.

For

why, Sir?

There's gaming there, and tricks.

Why, would you be

A Gallant, and not game?

I, 'twill spend a man.

Spend you? It will repayre you, when you are spent.

How doe they liue by their wits, there, that haue vented

Sixe times your fortunes?

What, three thousand a yeare?

I, forty thousand.

Are there such?

I Sir.

And Gallants, yet. Here's a yong Gentleman,

Is borne to nothing, forty markes a yeare,

Which I count nothing. H'is to be initiated,

And haue a Flye o'the Doctor. He will winne you

By vnresistable luck, within this fortnight,

Inough to buy a Baronry. They will set him

Vpmost, at the Groome-Porters, all the Christmasse.

And, for the whole yeare through, at euery place,

Where there is play, present him with the Chayre,

The best attendance, the best drinke, sometimes

Two glasses of Canarie, and pay nothing;

The purest linnen, and the sharpest knife,

The Partrich next his trencher: and, somewhere,

The dainty bed, in priuate, with the Dainty.

You shall ha'your Ordinaries bid for him,

As Play-houses for a Poet; and the Master

Pray him, aloud, to name what Dish he affects,

Which must be butterd Shrimpes: and those, that drinke

To no mouth else, will drinke to his, as being

The goodly President-Mouth of all the boord.

Doe you not gull one?

God's my life! Doe you

thinke it?

You shall haue a cast Commander, can but get

In credit with a Glouer, or a Spurrier,

For some two payre, of eythers ware, afore-hand,

Will, by most swift posts, dealing with him,

Arriue at competent meanes, to keepe himselfe,

His Punke, and naked Boy, in excellent fashion.

And be admir'd for't.

Will the Doctor teach this?

He will doe more, Sir, when your Land is gone,

(As men of Spirit hate to keepe earth long)

In a Vacation, when small money is stirring,

And Ordinaries suspended till the Tearme,

Hee'll shew a Perspectiue, where on one side

You shall behold the faces, and the persons

Of all sufficient yong Heyres, in towne,

Whose bonds are currant for commoditie;

On th'other side, the Merchants formes, and others,

That, without help of any second Broker,

(Who would expect a share) will trust such parcells:

In the third square, the very streete, and signe

Where the Commoditie dwels, and do's but wait

To be deliuer'd, be it Pepper, Sope,

Hopps, or Tobacco, Ote-meale, Woad, or Cheeses.

All which you may so handle, to enioy,

To your owne vse, and neuer stand oblig'd.

I faith! Is he such a fellow?

Why, Nab here knowes

him.

And then for making matches, for rich Widdowes,

Yong Gentlewomen, Heyres, the fortunat'st Man!

Hee's sent too farre, and neare, all ouer England

To haue his counsell, and to know their Fortunes.

Gods will, my Suster shall see him.

I'll tell you, Sir,

What he did tell me of Nab. It's a strange thing,

(By the way you must eate no Cheese, Nab, it breedes Melan-

choly:

And that same Melancholy breedes wormes) but passe it,

He told me honest Nab, here, was ne'er at Tauerne,

But once in's life.

Truth, and no more I was not.

And, then he was so sick—

Could he tell you that,

too?

How should I know it?

In troth wee had beene a

shooting,

And had a peece of fat Ram-Mutton, to supper,

That lay so heauy o'my stomack—

And he has no head

To beare any Wine; for, what with the noyse o'the Fiddlers,

And care of his shop, for he dares keepe no Seruants—

My head did so ake—

As he was faine to be brought

home,

The Doctor told me. And then a good Old Woman—

(Yes faith she dwels in Seacoale-lane) did cure me,

With sodden Ale, and Pellitorie o'the Wall;

Cost me but two pence. I had another sicknesse,

Was worse then that.

I, that was with the griefe

Thou took st for b ing feast at eighteene pence,

For the water-worke

In truth, and it was like

T'haue cost me almost my life.

Thy hayre went off?

Yes, Sir, twas done for spight

Nay, so sayes the

Doctor.

Pray thee Tobacco-Boy, Goe fetch my Suster,

I'll see this learned Boy, before I goe:

And so shall she.

Sir, he is busie now:

But, if you haue a Sister to fetch hether,

Perhaps, your owne paines may command her sooner;

And he, by that time, will be free.

I goe, Sir.

Drugger, shee's thine; the Damaske. Subtle, and I

Must wrastle for her. Come on, Mr. Dapper.

You see, how I turne Clients, here, away,

To giue your cause dispatch. Ha'you perform'd

The ceremonies were inioyn'd you?

Yes, o'the Vinegar,

And the cleane shirt.

'Tis well: that shirt may doe you

More Worship then you thinke. Your Aunt's a fire

But that she will not shew it, t'haue a sight on you.

Ha'you prouided for her Graces Seruants?

Yes here are six-score Edward shillings.

Good.

And an old Harry's Soueraigne.

Very good.

And three Iames shillings, and an Elizabeth groat,

Iust twenty nobles.

O, you are too iust.

I would you had had the other Noble in Maries.

I haue some Philip and Maries.

I those same

Are best of all. Where are they? Hearke, the Doctor.

IS yet her Graces Cossen come?

He is come.

And is he fasting?

Yes.

And hath cry'd Hum?

Thrise, you must answere.

Thrise.

And as oft

Buz?

If you haue, say.

I haue.

Then, to her Cuz,

Hoping, that he hath vinegard his senses,

As he was bid, the Faery Queene dispenses,

By me, this Robe, the Peticoate of Fortune;

Which that he straight put on, she doth importune.

And though to Fortune neere be her Peticoate,

Yet, nearer is her Smock, the Queene doth note:

And, therefore, euen of that a piece she hath sent,

Which, being a Child, to wrap him in, was rent;

And prayes him, for a scarfe, he now will weare it

(With as much loue, as then her Grace did teare it)

About his eyes, to shew, he is fortunate.

And, trusting vnto her to make his State,

Hee'll throw away all worldly pelfe, about him;

Which that hee. will performe, she doth not doubt him.

She need not doubt him, Sir Alasse, he has nothing,

But what he will part withall, as willingly,

Vpon her Graces word (Throw away your purse)

As she would aske it, (hand kerchiefes, and all)

She cannot bid that thing, but hee'll obay.

If you haue a Ring, about you, cast it off,

Or a siluer seale, at your wrist, her Grace will send

Her Faeries here to search you, therefore deale

Directly with her Highnesse. If they finde

That you conceale a mite, you are vndone.

Truely ther's all

All what?

My money, truly.

Keepe nothing, that is transitorie, about you.

Bid Dol play musique. Looke, the Elues are come

To pinch you, if you tell not truth. Aduise you.

O, I haue a paper with a Spur-riall in't.

Ti, ti,

They knew't, they say.

Ti, ti, ti, ti, he has more yet.

Ti, ti ti ti. I'the tother pocket?

Ti ti, ti ti, ti ti, ti ti.

They must pinch him, or he will neuer confesse, they say.

O, ô.

Nay, 'pray you hold. Hee is her GracesNe-

phew.

Ti ti ti? What care you? Good faith, you shall care.

Deale plainely, Sir, and shame the Faeries. Shew

You are an Innocent.

By this good light, I ha' nothing,

Ti ti, ti ti to ta. He dos æquiuocate, she sayes:

Ti, ti do ti, ti ti do, ti da. And sweares by the light, when he is

blinded.

By this good darke, I ha' nothing but a halfe-Crowne

Of Gold, about my wrist, that my Loue gaue me;

And a leaden Heart I wore, sin' she forsooke me.

I thought, 'twas something. And, would you incurre

Your Aunts displeasure for these trifles? Come

I had rather you had throwne away twenty halfe-crownes.

You may weare your leaden Heart still. How now?

What newes, Dol?

Yonders your Knight, Sir

Mammon.

Gods lid, We neuer thought of him, till now.

Where is hee?

Here, hard by. H'is at the doore.

And, you are not ready, now? Dol, get his suite.

He must not be sent back.

O by no meanes.

What shall we doe with this same Puffin, here,

Now hee's o'the Spit?

Why lay him backe a while,

With some deuise, Ti, ti ti, ti ti ti. Would her Grace speake with

me?

I come. Help Dol.

Who's there? Sir Epicure;

My Master's i'the way. Please you to walke

Three or foure turnes, but till his back be turn'd,

And I am for you. Quickly, Dol.

Her Grace

Commends her kindly to you, Mr. Dapper.

I long to see her Grace.

She, now, is set

At Dinner, in her bed; and she has sent you,

From her owne priuate trencher, a dead Mouse,

And a piece of Ginger-bread, to be mery withall,

And stay your stomacke, least you faint with fasting.

Yet, if you could hold out, till she saw you, she sayes,

It would be better for you.

Sir, He shall

Hold out, and'twere this two howers, for her Highnes;

I can assure you that. We will not loose

All we ha' done.

He must nor see, nor speake

To any body, till then.

For that, we'll put Sir,

A stay in 'is mouth.

Of what?

Of Ginger-bread.

Make you it fit. He that hath pleas'd her Grace,

Thus farre, shall not now crinckle, for a little.

Gape Sir, and let him fit you.

Where shall we now

Bestow him?

I'the Priuy.

Come along, Sir

I now must shew you Fortunes priuy lodgings.

Are they perfum'd? and his bath ready?

All.

Onely the Fumigation's somewhat strong.

Sir Epicure,, I am yours, Sir, by and by.

O Sir, yo'are come i'the onely, finest time—

Where's Master?

Now preparing for pro-

iection, Sir.

Your stuffe will b' all chang'd shortly.

Into Gold?

To Gold, and Siluer, Sir.

Siluer I care not for.

Yes, Sir, a little to giue Beggars.

Where's the Lady?

At hand, here. I ha'told her such braue things, on you,

Touching your bounty & your noble Spirit.

Hast thou?

As she is almost in her fit to see you.

But, good Sir, no Diuinitie i'your conference

For feare of putting her in rage.

I warrant thee.

Sixe men will not hold her downe. And, then

If the Old man should heare, or see you.

Feare not.

The very House, Sir, would runne madd. You know it

How scrupulous he is, and violent,

'Gainst the least act of sinne, Physick, or Mathematiques,

Poetry, State, or Baudry (as I told you)

She will endure and neuer startle: But

No word of Controuersie.

I am school'd, good Lungs.