The Alchemist Ben Jonson (different e readers TXT) 📖

Surly

The decayed Vestals of Pict-hatch would thank you,
That keep the fire alive, there.

Sir Epicure Mammon

’Tis the secret
Of nature naturised ’gainst all infections,
Cures all diseases coming of all causes;
A month’s grief in a day, a year’s in twelve;
And, of what age soever, in a month:
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.
I’ll undertake, withal, to fright the plague
Out of the kingdom in three months.

Pertinax Surly

And I’ll
Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then,
Without their poets.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Sir, I’ll do’t. Meantime,
I’ll give away so much unto my man,
Shall serve the whole city, with preservative
Weekly; each house his dose, and at the rate⁠—

Pertinax Surly

As he that built the waterwork, does with water?

Sir Epicure Mammon

You are incredulous.

Pertinax Surly

Faith I have a humour,
I would not willingly be gulled. Your stone
Cannot transmute me.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Pertinax, [my] Surly,
Will you believe antiquity? Records?
I’ll show you a book where Moses and his sister,
And Solomon have written of the art;
Ay, and a treatise penned by Adam⁠—

Pertinax Surly

How!

Sir Epicure Mammon

Of the philosopher’s stone, and in High Dutch.

Pertinax Surly

Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch?

Sir Epicure Mammon

He did;
Which proves it was the primitive tongue.

Pertinax Surly

What paper?

Sir Epicure Mammon

On cedar board.

Pertinax Surly

O that, indeed, they say,
Will last ’gainst worms.

Sir Epicure Mammon

’Tis like your Irish wood,
’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece, too,
Which was no other than a book of alchemy,
Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum.
Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub,
And, all that fable of Medea’s charms,
The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace,
Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon:
The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate,
That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting;
And they are gathered into Jason’s helm,
The alembic, and then sowed in Mars his field,
And thence sublimed so often, till they’re fixed.
Both this, the Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story,
Jove’s shower, the boon of Midas, Argus’ eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
All abstract riddles of our stone.

Enter Face, as a servant.

—How now!
Do we succeed? Is our day come? And holds it?

Face

The evening will set red upon you, sir;
You have colour for it, crimson: the red ferment
Has done his office; three hours hence prepare you
To see projection.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Pertinax, my Surly.
Again I say to thee, aloud, Be rich.
This day, thou shalt have ingots; and tomorrow,
Give lords th’ affront.⁠—Is it, my Zephyrus, right?
Blushes the bolt’s head?

Face

Like a wench with child, sir,
That were but now discovered to her master.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Excellent witty Lungs!⁠—my only care
Where to get stuff enough now, to project on;
This town will not half serve me.

Face

No, sir! Buy
The covering off o’ churches.

Sir Epicure Mammon

That’s true.

Face

Yes.
Let them stand bare, as do their auditory;
Or cap them, new, with shingles.

Sir Epicure Mammon

No, good thatch:
Thatch will lie light upon the rafters, Lungs.⁠—
Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace;
I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe,
Lost in the embers; and repair this brain,
Hurt with the fume o’ the metals.

Face

I have blown, sir,
Hard for your worship; thrown by many a coal,
When ’twas not beech; weighed those I put in, just,
To keep your heat still even; these bleared eyes
Have waked to read your several colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow,
The peacock’s tail, the plumed swan.

Sir Epicure Mammon

And, lastly,
Thou hast descryed the flower, the sanguis agni?

Face

Yes, sir.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Where’s master?

Face

At his prayers, sir, he;
Good man, he’s doing his devotions
For the success.

Sir Epicure Mammon

Lungs, I will set a period
To all thy labours; thou shalt be the master
Of my seraglio.

Face

Good, sir.

Sir Epicure Mammon

But do you hear?
I’ll geld you, Lungs.

Face

Yes, sir.

Sir Epicure Mammon

For I do mean
To have a list of wives and concubines,
Equal with Solomon, 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.⁠—
Thou’rt sure thou saw’st it blood?

Face

Both blood and spirit, sir.

Sir Epicure Mammon

I will have all my beds blown up, not stuffed;
Down is too hard: and then, mine oval room
Filled with such pictures as Tiberius took
From Elephantis, and dull Aretine
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses
Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse
And multiply the figures, as I walk
Naked between my succubae. My mists
I’ll have of perfume, vapoured ’bout the room,
To lose ourselves in; and my baths, like pits
To fall into; from whence we will come forth,
And roll us dry in gossamer and roses.⁠—
Is it arrived at ruby?⁠—Where I spy
A wealthy citizen, or [a] rich lawyer,
Have a sublimed pure wife, unto that fellow
I’ll send a thousand pound to be my cuckold.

Face

And I shall carry it?

Sir Epicure Mammon

No. I’ll have no bawds,
But fathers and mothers: they will do it best,
Best of all others. And my flatterers
Shall be the pure and gravest of divines,
That I can get for money. My mere fools,
Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets
The same that writ so subtly of the fart,
Whom I will entertain still for that subject.
The few that would give out themselves to be
Court and town-stallions, and, each-where, bely
Ladies who are known most innocent for them;
Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of:
And they shall fan me with ten ostrich tails
Apiece, made in a plume to gather wind.
We will be brave, Puffe, now we have the medicine.
My meat shall all come in, in Indian shells,
Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies.
The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels’ heels,
Boiled in the spirit of Sol, and dissolved pearl,
Apicius’ diet, ’gainst the epilepsy:
And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber,
Headed with diamond and carbuncle.
My footboy shall eat pheasants, calvered salmons,
Knots, godwits, lampreys: I myself will have
The beards of barbels served, instead of salads;
Oiled mushrooms; and the swelling unctuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Dressed with an exquisite, and poignant sauce;
For which, I’ll say unto my cook, “There’s gold,
Go forth, and