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Your brass, your pewter, and your andirons.

Mam. Not those of iron ?

Sub. Yes, you may bring them too.
We'll change all metals.

Sur. I believe you in that.
Mam. Then I may send my spits ?
Sub. Yes, and your racks.

Sur. And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, and hooks? Shall he not?

Sub. If he please.
Sur. To be an ass.
Sub. How, sir !

Mam. This gentleman you must bear withal :
I told you, he had no faith.

Sur. And as little hope, sir;
But much less charity, should I gull myself.

Sub. Why, what have you observ'd, sir, in our art, Seems so impossible ?

Sur. But your whole work, no more.
That you should hatch gold in a furnace, sir,
As they do eggs in Egypt "8!

Sub. Sir, do you
Believe that eggs are hatch'd so?

Sur. If I should ?

Sub. Why, I think that the
No egg but differs from a chicken more
Than metals in themselves.

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

Sub. The same we say of lead, and other metals, Which would be gold, if they had time. 19 That you should ba th gold in a furnace, fir,

As they do eggs in Ægypt.) Besides the accounts given us by Sandys and other later travellers, of the manner of hatching chickens at Grand Cairo, the reader may consult an exact rela 1737. the celebrated Mr. John Greaves, ad vol, of his works, edit.

greater miracle.

Mam. And that
Our art doth further.

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

Sur, I, what is that?
Sub. Marry, we say-

Mam. I, now it heats: stand father,
Pound him to dust-

Sub. It is, of the one part;
A humid exhalation, which we call
Materia liquida, or the unctuous water ;
On the other part, a certain crass and viscous
Portion of earth; both which, concorporate,
Do make the elementary matter of gold;
Which is not yet propria materia,
But common to all metals, and all slones,
For, where it is forsaken of that moisture;
And hath more driness, it becomes a stone.
Where it retains more of the humid fatness;
It turns to fulphur, or to quicksilver,
Who are the parents of all other metals.
Nor can this remote matter suddenly
Progress so from extreme unto extreme,
As to grow gold, and leap o're all the means.
Nature doth first beget th' imperfect, then
Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that airy
And oily water, mercury is engendred;
Sulphur o' the fat and earthy part ; the one
(Which is the last) supplying the place of male;
The other of the female in all metals.
Some do believe hermaphrodeity,
That both do act and suffer. But these two
Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensive.
And even in gold they are ; for we do find

Seeds

1

Seeds of them, by our fire, and gold in them ;
And can produce the species of each metal
More perfect thence, than nature doth in earth,
Beside, who doth not fee in daily practice,
Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, wasps,
Out of the carcasses and dung of creatures ;
Yea, scorpions of an herb, being rightly plac'd ?
And these are living creatures, far more perfect
And excellent than metals.

Mam. Well said, father!
Nay, if he take you in hand, fir, with an argument,
He'll bray you in a mortar.

Sur. Pray you, fir, stay.
Rather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll believe
That Alchemy is a a pretty kind of game,
Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to cheat a man
With charming.

Sub. Sir?

Sur. What else are all your terms,
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 mercury,
Your oil of height, your tree of life, your blood,
Your marchesite, your cutie, your magnesia,
Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,
Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,
Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit,
And then

your
red

your

white woman, With all your broths, your menstrues, and materials, Of piss and egg-shells, womens terms, mans blood, Hair o'th' head, burnt clouts, chalk, merds, and clay, Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass, And worlds of other strange ingredients, Would burit a man to name? Sub. And all these nam'd,

man, and

Intending but one thing; which art our writers
Us'd to obscure their art.

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

Sub. Was not all the knowledge
Of the Ægyptians writ in myftic symbols ?
Speak not the scriptures oft in parables ?
Are not the choicest fables of the poets,
That were the fountains and first springs of wisdom,
Wrap'd in perplexed allegories ?

Mam. I urg'd that,
And clear'd to him, that Sysiphus was damn'd
To roll the ceaness stone, only because
He would have ours common. Who is this?

[Dol is seen. Sub.God's precious-What do you mean? go in good Let me entreat you. Where's this varlet? [lady,

Fac. Sir ?
Sub. You very knave! do you use me thus ?
Fac. Wherein, fir ?
Sub. Go in, and see, you traitor. Go.
Mam. Who is it, fir ?
Sub. Nothing, fir : nothing.

Mam. What's the matter, good sir?
I have not seen you thus distemper’d? who is't?

Sub. All arts have still had, sir, their adversaries; But ours the most ignorant. What now?

[Face returns. Fac. 'Twas not my fault, sir; she would speak with Sub. Would she, fir? Follow me.

[you. Mom. Stay, lungs. Fac. I dare not, fir. Mam. How !

pray Fac. She's mad, sir, and sent hitlerMam. Stay man, what is the ?

Fac.

thee stay.

Fac. A lord's fifter, sir. (He'll be mad too.

Mam. I warrant thee.)
Why sent hicher ?

Fac. Sir, to be cur'd.
Sub. Why rascal!
Fac. Loe you. Here, sir.

(He goes out. Mam. 'Fore God, a Bradamante, a brave piece". Sur. Heart, this is a bawdy-house! I'll be burnt else.

Mam. O, by this light, no. Do not wrong him. H'is Too scrupulous that way. It is his vice. No, h’is a rare physician, do him right, An excellent Paracelsian, and has done Strange cures with mineral physick. He deals all With spirits, he. He will not hear a word Of Galen, or his tedious Recipe's. How now, lungs !

[Face again. Fac. Softly, sir, speak softly. I meant To ha' told your worship all. This must not hear.

Mam. No, he will not be gulld: let him alone.

Fac. Y’are very right, sir, she is a most rare scholar, And is gone mad with studying Broughton's works**. If you but name a word touching the Hebrew, She falls into her fit, and will discourse So learnedly of genealogies, As you would run mad too, to hear her, fir. [lungs?

Mam.How might one do' t' have conference with her,

Fac. O divers have run mad upon the conference. I do not know, fir : I am sent in haste, To fetch a vial.

Sur. Be not gullid, fir Mammon.

19 'Fore God, a BRADAMANTE.) An heroine in Orlando Furiolo.

20 She is gone mad with Audying BROUGHTON's works. ] Mr. Hugh Broughton, a celebrated rabbinin Queen Elizabeth's days, and a great publisher. See STRYP W’hitgift, and Annals of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 2

Dr. GREY, VOL. III.

D

Mam.

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