The Alchemist · Act II · Scene I (2/2) (1/3)
Enter Sir Epicure Mammon and Surly.
Sir Epicure Mammon Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe; here’s the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon’s Ophir! He was sailing to’t, Three years, but we have reached 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 deal with the hollow dye, Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping The livery-punk for the young heir, that must Seal, at all hours, in his shirt: no more, If he deny, have him beaten to’t, as he is That brings him the commodity. No more Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloak, To be displayed at Madam Augusta’s, make The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before The golden calf, and on their knees, whole nights Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets: Or go a feasting after drum and ensign. No more of this. You shall start up young viceroys, And have your punks, and punketees, my Surly. And unto thee I speak it first, Be Rich*. Where is my Subtle, there? Within, ho!
Face Within. Sir, He’ll come to you by and by.
Sir Epicure Mammon That is his firedrake, His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals, Till he firk nature up, in her own centre. You are not faithful, sir. This night, I’ll change All that is metal, in my house, to gold: And, early in the morning, will I send To all the plumbers and the pewterers, And by their tin and lead up; and to Lothbury For all the copper.
Pertinax Surly What, and turn that too?
Sir Epicure Mammon Yes, and I’ll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, And make them perfect Indies! You admire now?
Pertinax Surly No, faith.
Sir Epicure Mammon But when you see th’ effects of the Great Medicine, Of which one part projected on a hundred Of Mercury, or Venus, or the moon, Shall turn it to as many of the sun; Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum: You will believe me.
Pertinax Surly Yes, when I see’t, I will. But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I Giving them no occasion, sure I’ll have A whore, shall piss them out next day.
Sir Epicure Mammon Ha! Why? Do you think I fable with you? I assure you, He that has once the flower of the sun, The perfect ruby, which we call elixir, Not only can do that, but, by its virtue, Can confer honour, love, respect, long life; Give safety, valour, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight and twenty days, I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child.
Pertinax Surly No doubt; he’s that already.
Sir Epicure Mammon Nay, I mean, Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle, To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters, Young giants; as our philosophers have done, The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood, But taking, once a week, on a knife’s point, The quantity of a grain of mustard of it; Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids.
Pertinax 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 be a knight.”
Face Sir, I’ll go look A little, how it heightens.
Exit.
Sir Epicure Mammon Do.⁠—My shirts I’ll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light As cobwebs; and for all my other raiment, It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, Were he to teach the world riot anew. My gloves of fishes’ and birds’ skins, perfumed With gums of paradise, and eastern air⁠—
Pertinax Surly And do you think to have the stone with this?
Sir Epicure Mammon No, I do think t’ have all this with the stone.
Pertinax Surly Why, I have heard he must be homo frugi, A pious, holy, and religious man, One free from mortal sin, a very virgin.
Sir Epicure Mammon That makes it, sir; he is so: but I buy it; My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, A notable, superstitious, good soul, Has worn 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 profane word afore him: ’tis poison.⁠—
Enter Subtle.
Good morrow, Father.
Subtle Gentle son, good morrow, And to your friend there. What is he, is with you?
Sir Epicure Mammon An heretic, that I did bring along, In hope, sir, to convert him.
Subtle Son, I doubt You are covetous, that thus you meet your time In the just point: prevent your day at morning. This argues something, worthy of a fear Of importune and carnal appetite. Take heed you do not cause the blessing leave you, With your ungoverned haste. I should be sorry To see my labours, now even at perfection, Got by long watching and large patience, Not prosper where my love and zeal hath placed them. Which (heaven I call to witness, with yourself, To whom I have poured my thoughts) in all my ends, Have looked no way, but unto public good, To pious uses, and dear charity Now grown a prodigy with men. Wherein If you, my son, should now prevaricate, And, to your own particular lusts employ So great and catholic a bliss, be sure A curse will follow, yea, and overtake Your subtle and most secret ways.
Sir Epicure Mammon I know, sir; You shall not need to fear me; I but come, To have you confute this gentleman.
Pertinax Surly Who is, Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief Toward your stone; would not be gulled.
Subtle Well, son, All that I can convince him in, is this, The work is done, bright Sol is in his robe. We have a medicine of the triple soul, The glorified spirit. Thanks be to heaven, And make us worthy of it!⁠—Ulen Spiegel!
Face Within. Anon, sir.
Subtle Look well to the register. And let your heat still lessen by degrees, To the aludels.
Face Within. Yes, sir.
Subtle Did you look On the bolt’s head yet?
Face Within. Which? On D, sir?
Subtle Ay; What’s the complexion?
Face Within. Whitish.
Subtle Infuse vinegar, To draw his volatile substance and his tincture: And let the water in glass E be filtered, And put into the gripe’s egg. Lute him well; And leave him closed in balneo.
Face Within. I will, sir.
Pertinax Surly What a brave language here is! Next to canting.
Subtle I have another work, you never saw, son, That three days since past the philosopher’s wheel, In the lent heat of Athanor; and’s become Sulphur of Nature.
Sir Epicure Mammon But ’tis for me?
Subtle What need you? You have enough in that is perfect.
Sir Epicure Mammon O but⁠—
Subtle Why, this is covetise!
Sir Epicure Mammon No, I assure you, I shall employ it all in pious uses, Founding of colleges and grammar schools, Marrying young virgins, building hospitals, And now and then a church.
Reenter Face.
Subtle How now!
Face Sir, please you, Shall I not change the filter?
Subtle Marry, yes; And bring me the complexion of glass B.
Exit Face.
Sir Epicure Mammon Have you another?
Subtle Yes, son; were I assured⁠— Your piety were firm, we would not want The means to glorify it: but I hope the best.⁠— I mean to tinct C in sand-heat tomorrow, And give him imbibition.
Sir Epicure Mammon Of white oil?
Subtle No, sir, of red. F is come over the helm too, I thank my Maker, in St. Mary’s bath, And shows lac virginis. Blessed be heaven! I sent you of his faeces there calcined: Out of that calx, I have won the salt of mercury.
Sir Epicure Mammon By pouring on your rectified water?
Subtle Yes, and reverberating in Athanor.
Reenter Face.
How now! What colour says it?
Face The ground black, sir.
Sir Epicure Mammon That’s your crow’s head?
Pertinax Surly Your cockscomb’s, is it not?
Subtle No, ’tis not perfect. Would it were the crow! That work wants something.
Pertinax Surly Aside. O, I looked for this. The hay’s a pitching.
Subtle Are you sure you loosed them In their own menstrue?
Face Yes, sir, and then married them, And put them in a bolt’s head nipped to digestion, According as you bade me, when I set The liquor of Mars to circulation In the same heat.
Subtle The process then was right.
Face Yes, by the token, sir, the retort brake, And what was saved was put into the pelican, And signed with Hermes’ seal.
Subtle I think ’twas so. We should have a new amalgama.
Pertinax Surly Aside. O, this ferret Is rank as any polecat.
Subtle 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 Any die now, if I might counsel, sir, For luck’s sake to the rest: it is not good.
Sir Epicure Mammon He says right.
Pertinax Surly Aside. Ay, are you bolted?