The Alchemist

the philosopher’s stone.

Face

Why, how now, Abel! Is this true?



Drugger

Aside to Face.

Good Captain,

What must I give?



Face

Nay, I’ll not counsel thee.

Thou hear’st what wealth (he says, spend what thou canst,)

Thou’rt like to come to.



Drugger

I would gi’ him a crown.



Face

A crown! And toward such a fortune? Heart,

Thou shalt rather gi’ him thy shop. No gold about thee?



Drugger

Yes, I have a portague, I have kept this half-year.



Face

Out on thee, Nab! ’Slight, there was such an offer⁠—

Shalt keep’t no longer, I’ll give’t him for thee. Doctor,

Nab prays your worship to drink this, and swears

He will appear more grateful, as your skill

Does raise him in the world.



Drugger

I would entreat

Another favour of his worship.



Face

What is’t, Nab?



Drugger

But to look over, sir, my almanac,

And cross out my ill-days, that I may neither

Bargain, nor trust upon them.



Face

That he shall, Nab:

Leave it, it shall be done, ’gainst afternoon.



Subtle

And a direction for his shelves.



Face

Now, Nab,

Art thou well pleased, Nab?



Drugger

’Thank, sir, both your worships.



Face

Away.




Exit Drugger.




Why, now, you smoaky persecutor of nature!

Now do you see, that something’s to be done,

Beside your beech-coal, and your corsive waters,

Your crosslets, crucibles, and cucurbites?

You must have stuff brought home to you, to work on:

And yet you think, I am at no expense

In searching out these veins, then following them,

Then trying them out. ’Fore God, my intelligence

Costs me more money, than my share oft comes to,

In these rare works.



Subtle

You are pleasant, sir.




Re-enter Dol.




—How now!

What says my dainty Dolkin?



Dol Common

Yonder fishwife

Will not away. And there’s your giantess,

The bawd of Lambeth.



Subtle

Heart, I cannot speak with them.



Dol Common

Not afore night, I have told them in a voice,

Thorough the trunk, like one of your familiars.

But I have spied sir Epicure Mammon⁠—



Subtle

Where?



Dol Common

Coming along, at far end of the lane,

Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue

To one that’s with him.



Subtle

Face, go you and shift.




Exit Face.




Dol, you must presently make ready, too.



Dol Common

Why, what’s the matter?



Subtle

O, I did look for him

With the sun’s rising: ’marvel he could sleep,

This is the day I am to perfect for him

The magisterium, our great work, the stone;

And yield it, made, into his hands: of which

He has, this month, talked as he were possessed.

And now he’s dealing pieces on’t away.⁠—

Methinks I see him entering ordinaries,

Dispensing for the pox, and plaguey houses,

Reaching his dose, walking Moorfields for lepers,

And offering citizens’ wives pomander-bracelets,

As his preservative, made of the elixir;

Searching the spittal, to make old bawds young;

And the highways, for beggars, to make rich.

I see no end of his labours. He will make

Nature ashamed of her long sleep: when art,

Who’s but a step-dame, shall do more than she,

In her best love to mankind, ever could:

If his dream lasts, he’ll turn the age to gold.




Exeunt.


Act II

Scene I
An outer room in Lovewit’s house.




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