"Mam. Of white oil?

"Sub. No, sir, of red. Fis come over the helm too, "In St. Mary's Bath, and shews lac virginis.

"I sent you of his faces there calcin'd.

"Out of that calx, I have won the salt of mercury. "Mam. By pouring on your rectified water?" Sub. "Yes, and reverberating in Athanor.” How now? What colour says it?

Enter FACE.

Face. The ground black, sir,
Mam. That's your crow's head?

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

Sub. No, 'tis not perfect, would it were the crow. That work wants something.

Sur. Oh, I look'd for this.

The hay's a pitching.

Sub. Are you sure you loosed them

In their own menstrue?

Face. Yes, sir, and then married them,

260

And put them in a bolt's head, nipp'd to digestion, According as you bade me, when I set

The liquor of Mars to circulation,

In the same heat.

Sub. The process then was right.

Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort brake, And what was sav'd was put into the pellicane, And signed with Hermes' seal.

Sub. I think 'twas so.

We should have a new amalgama.

Sur. Oh, this ferret

Is rank as any pole-cat.

Sub. But I care not.

Let him e'en die; "we have enough beside,
"In embrion. H has his white shirt on?
"Face. Yes, sir.

"He's ripe for inceration: he stands warm

"In his ash fire." I would not, you should let 280 Any die now, if I might counsel, sir,

For luck's sake to the rest. It is not good.

Mam. He says right.

Sur. Ay, are you bolted?

Face. Nay, I know't, sir,

I have seen th' ill fortune. What is some three

ounces

Of fresh materials ?

Mam. Is't no more.

Face. No more, sir,

Of gold, t'amalgame, with some six of mercury.
Mam. Away, here's money. What will serve?
Face. Ask him, sir.

Mam. How much?

Sub. Give him nine pounds: you may give him ten.

Sur. Yes. Twenty, and be cozened, do.

"O' four inferior works are at fixation.

"A third is in ascension." Go your ways. Have you set the oil of Luna in Kemia?

300

Face. Yes, sir.

Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar?

Face. Ay.

Sur. We shall have a sallad.

Mam. When do you make projection?

[Exit.

Sub. Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med'cine,

By hanging him in balneo vaporoso,

And giving him solution, then congeal him,

And then dissolve him, then again congeal him :
For look, how oft I iterate the work,

So many times I add unto his virtue.
Get you your stuff here against afternoon,
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.

320

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 gent'man you must bear withal!

I told you, he had no faith.

Sur. And 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!

Sub. Sir, do you

Believe that eggs are hatched so ?

Sur. If I should?

Sub. Why I think that the greater miracle,
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.*

Mam. And that

Our art doth further.

Sub. Ay, 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. Ay, what is that?

Enter DOLL.

Sub. Marry, we say——

340

God's precious-What do you mean? Go in, good

lady,

Let me entreat you.-Where's this varlet ?

Enter FACE.

Face. Sir?

Sub. You very knave! Do you use me thus?

• Face. Wherein, sir?

Sub. Go in, and see, you traitor. Go. [Exit Face. Mam. Who is it, sir?

Sub. Nothing, sir. Nothing.

Mam. What's the matter, good sir?

360

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. Face. 'Twas not my fault, sir; she would speak with you.

Sub. Would she, sir? Follow me.

[Exit Sub.

Mam. Stay, Lungs.

Face. I dare not, sir.

Mam. How! Pray thee stay.

Face. She's mad, sir, and sent hither

Mam. Stay, man, what is she?

Face. A lord's sister, sir.

He'll be mad too.

Mam. I warrant thee.

Why sent hither?

Face. Sir, to be cur'd.

Sur. Why rascal ?

Face. Lo you. Here, sir,

[He goes out.

Mam. 'Fore heaven, a bradamante, a brave piece, 381 Sur. Heart, this is a bawdy house! I'll be burnt else. Mam. Oh, by this light, no do not wrong him. He's Too scrupulous that way. It is his vice.

No, he's a rare physician, do him right,

An excellent Paracelsian, and has done