by Ben Jonson
So great and catholic a bliss, be sure
A curse will follow, yea, and overtake
Your subtle and most secret ways.
MAMMON: I know, sir,
You shall not need to fear me. I but come
To ha’ you confute this gentleman.
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.
30 We have a med’ cine of the triple soul,
The glorified spirit. Thanks be to Heaven,
And make us worthy of it! –
[Calling to FACE.]
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
O’ 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,
40 And put into the gripe’s egg. Lute him well;
And leave him closed in balneo.
FACE [within]: I will, sir.
SURLY [aside]: What a brave language here is! next to canting!
SUBTLE: I have another work you never saw, son,
That three days since passed the Philosopher’s Wheel,
In the lent heat of Athanor, and ’s become
Sulphur o’ Nature.
MAMMON: But ’tis for me?
SUBTLE: What need you?
You have enough in that is perfect.
MAMMON: O, but –
SUBTLE: Why, this is covetise!
MAMMON: No, I assure you,
I shall employ it all in pious uses,
50 Founding of colleges and grammar schools,
Marrying young virgins, building hospitals,
And, now and then, a church.
[Enter 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.]
MAMMON: Ha’ 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.
MAMMON: Of white oil?
60 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. Blessèd be heaven!
I sent you of his fæces there calcined;
Out of that calx, I ha’ won the salt of mercury.
MAMMON: By pouring on your rectifièed water?
SUBTLE: Yes, and reverberating in Athanor.
[Re-enter FACE.]
How now! what colour says it?
FACE: The ground black, sir.
MAMMON: That’s your crow’s head?
SURLY [aside]: Your cox-comb’s, is it not?
SUBTLE: No, ’tis not perfect. Would it were the crow!
70 That work wants something.
SURLY [aside]: O, I looked for this,
The hay is a-pitching.
SUBTLE: Are you sure you loosed ’em
I’ their own menstrue?
FACE: Yes, sir, and then married ’em,
And put ’em 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 ’t was so
80 We should have a new amalgama.
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.
MAMMON: He says right.
SURLY [aside]: Ay, are you bolted?
FACE: Nay, I know’t, sir,
I’ve seen th’ ill fortune. What is some three ounces
Of fresh materials?
MAMMON: Is ’t no more?
90 FACE: No more, sir,
Of gold, t’ amalgam with some six of mercury.
MAMMON: Away, here’s money. What will serve?
FACE: Ask him, sir.
MAMMON: How much?
SUBTLE: Give him nine pound; you may gi’ him ten.
SURLY [aside]: Yes, twenty, and be cozened; do.
MAMMON: There ’tis.
[Gives FACE the money.]
SUBTLE: This needs not; but that you will have it so,
To see conclusions of all. For two
Of our inferior works are at fixation,
A third is in ascension. Go your ways.
Ha’ you set the oil of Luna in kemia?
FACE: Yes, sir.
SUBTLE: And the Philosopher’s Vinegar?
100 FACE: Ay.
[Exit.]
SURLY [aside]: We shall have a salad!
MAMMON: When do you make projection?
SUBTLE: Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med’ cine,
By poem0 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.
As, if at first one ounce convert a hundred,
After his second loose, he’ll turn a thousand;
110 His third solution, ten; his fourth, a hundred;
After his fifth, a thousand thousand ounces
Of any imperfect metal, into pure
Silver or gold, in all examinations
As good as any of the natural mine.
Get you your stuff here against afternoon,
Your brass, your pewter, and your andirons.
MAMMON: Not those of iron?
SUBTLE: Yes, you may bring them too;
We’ll change all metals
SURLY [aside]: I believe you in that.
MAMMON: Then I may send my spits?
SUBTLE: Yes, and your racks.
120 SURLY: And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, and hooks?
Shall he not?
SUBTLE: If he please.
SURLY: – To be an ass.
SUBTLE: How, sir!
MAMMON: This gent’ man you must bear withal.
I told you he had no faith.
SURLY: And little hope, sir;
But much less charity, should I gull myself.
SUBTLE: Why, what have you observed, sir, in our art,
Seems so impossible?
SURLY: But your whole work, no more:
That you should hatch gold in a furnace, sir,
As they do eggs in Egypt!
SUBTLE: Sir, do you
Believe that eggs are hatched so?
SURLY: If I should?
130 SUBTLE: Why, I think that the greater miracle.
No egg but differs from a chicken more
Than metals in
themselves.
SURLY: That cannot be.
The egg’s ordained by nature to that end,
And is a chicken in potentia.
SUBTLE: The same we say of lead and other metals,
Which would be gold if they had time.
MAMMON: And that
Our art doth further.
SUBTLE: Ay, for ’t were absurd
To think that nature in the earth bred gold
Perfect, i’ the instant. Something went before.
There must be remote matter.
140 SURLY: Ay, what is that?
SUBTLE: Marry, we say –
MAMMON: Ay, now it heats! Stand, father,
Pound him to dust.
SUBTLE: It is, of the one part,
A humid exhalation, which we call
Materia liquida, or the unctuous water;
On th’ 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 stones.
150 For, where it is forsaken of that moisture,
And hath more dryness, it becomes a stone;
Where it retains more of the humid fatness,
It turns to sulphur 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’ er all the means.
Nature doth first beget th’ imperfect, then
Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that airy
160 And oily water, mercury is engend’ red;
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 of them by our fire, and gold in them;
And can produce the species of each metal
170 More perfect thence, than nature doth in earth.
Beside, who doth not see 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 placed?
And these are living creatures, far more perfect
And excellent than metals.
MAMMON: Well said, father!
Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument,
He’ll bray you in a mortar.
SURLY: Pray you, sir, stay.
Rather than I’ll be brayed, sir, I’ll believe
180 That Alchemy is a pretty kind of game,
Somewhat like tricks o’ the cards, to cheat a man
With charming.
SUBTLE: Sir?
SURLY: 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 chrysosperm,
Your sal, your sulphur, and your mercury,
Your oil of height, your Tree of Life, your blood,
Your marchesite, your tutie, your magnesia,
Your Toad, your Crow, your Dragon, and your Panther,
190 Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,
Your lato, azoch, zernich, chibrit, heautarit,
And then your red man, and your white woman,
With all your broths, your menstrues, and materials
Of piss and egg-shells, women’s terms, man’s blood,
Hair o’ the head, burnt clouts, chalk, merds, and clay,
Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass,
And worlds of other strange ingredients,
Would burst a man to name?
SUBTLE: And all these, named,
Intending but one thing; which art our writers
Used to obscure their art.
200 MAMMON: Sir, so I told him –
Because the simple idiot should not learn it,
And make it vulgar.
SUBTLE: Was not all the knowledge
Of the Egyptians writ in mystic 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,
Wrapped in perplexèd allegories?
MAMMON: I urged that,
And cleared to him, that Sisyphus was damned
To roll the ceaseless stone, only because
He would have made ours common.
DOL is seen [at the door.]
210 Who is this?
SUBTLE: God’s precious! – What do you mean? Go in, good lady,
Let me entreat you.
[DOL retires.]
[Calling.] Where’s this varlet?
[Re-enter FACE.]
FACE: Sir.
SUBTLE: You very knave! do you use me thus?
FACE: Wherein, sir?
SUBTLE: Go in and see, you traitor. Go!
[Exit FACE.]
MAMMON: Who is it, sir?
SUBTLE: Nothing, sir; nothing.
MAMMON: What’s the matter, good sir?
I have not seen you thus distemp’ red: who is ’t?
SUBTLE: All arts have still had, sir, their adversaries;
But ours the most ignorant. –
FACE returns.
What now?
220 FACE: ’Twas not my fault, sir; she would speak with you.
SUBTLE: Would she, sir! Follow me.
[Exit]
MAMMON: Stay, Lungs!
FACE: I dare not, sir.
MAMMON: Stay, man; what is she?
FACE: A lord’s sister, sir.
MAMMON: How! Pray thee, stay.
FACE: She’s mad, sir, and sent hither –
He’ll be mad too –
MAMMON: I warrant thee. Why sent hither?
FACE: Sir, to be cured.
SUBTIE [within]: Why, rascal!
FACE: Lo, you! – here, sir!
He goes out.
MAMMON: ’ Fore God, a Bradamante, a brave piece!
SURLY: ’ Heart, this is a bawdy-house! I’ll be burnt else.
MAMMON: O, 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.
230 An excellent Paracelsian! And has done
Strange cures with mineral physic. He deals all
With spirits, he. He will not hear a word
Of Galen, or his tedious recipes. –
FACE again.
How now, Lungs!
FACE: Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant
To ha’ told your worship all. This must not hear.
MAMMON: No, he will not be gulled; let him alone.
FACE: 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,
240 She falls into her fit, and will discourse
So learnedly of genealogies,
As you would run mad, too, to hear her, sir.
MAMMON: How might one do t’ have conference with her, Lungs?
FACE: O, divers have run mad upon the conference.
I do not know, sir. I am sent in haste
To fetch a vial.
SURLY: Be not gulled, Sir Mammon.
MAMMON: Wherein? Pray ye, be patient.
SURLY: Yes, as you are,
And trust confederate knaves and bawds and whores.
MAMMON: You are too foul, believe it. – Come here, Ulen,
One word.
FACE: I dare not, in good faith.
250 MAMMON: Stay, knave!
FACE: He’s extreme angry that you saw her, sir.
MAMMON: Drink that. [Gives him money.] What is she when she’s out of her fit?
FACE: O, the most affablest creature, sir! so merry!
So pleasant! She’ll mount you up, like quicksilver
Over the helm, and circulate like oil,
A very vegetal; discourse of state,
Of mathematics, bawdry, anything –
MAMMON: Is she no way accessible? no means,
No trick to give a man a taste of her – wit –
Or so?
SUBTLE [within]: Ulen!
260 FACE: I’ll come to you again, sir.
[Exit.]
MAMMON: Surly, I did not think one o’ your breeding
Would traduce personages of worth.
SURLY: Sir Epicure,
Your friend to use; yet still loath to be gulled:
I do not like your philosophical bawds.
Their Stone is lechery enough to pay for,
Without this bait.
MAMMON: ’Heart, you abuse yourself.
I know the lady, and her friends, and means,
The original of this disaster. Her brother
Has told me all.
SURLY: And yet you ne’er saw her
Till now!
270 MAMMON: O yes, but I forgot. I have, believe it,
One o’ the treacherous’st memories, I do think,
Of all mankind.
SURLY: What call you her brother?
MAMMON: My Lord –
He wi’ not have his name known, now I think on ’t.
SURLY: A very treacherous memory!
MAMMON: O’ my faith –
SURLY: Tut, if you ha’ it not about you, pass it
Till we meet next.
MAMMON: Nay, by this hand, ’tis true.
He’s one I honour, and my noble friend;
And I respect his house.
SURLY: ’Heart! can it be
That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need,
280 A wise sir, too, at other times, should thus,
With his own oaths and arguments make hard means
To gull himself? An’ this be your elixir,
Your lapis mineralis, and your lunary,
Give me your honest trick yet at primero,
Or gleek; and take your lutum sapientis,
Your menstruum simplex! I’ll have gold before you,
And with less danger of the quicksilver,
Or the hot sulphur.
[Re-enter FACE.]
FACE (To SURLY): Here’s one from captain face, sir,
Desires you meet him i’ the Temple-church,
290 Some half-hour hence, and upon earnest business.
He whispers MAMMON.
Sir, if you please to quit us now, and come
Again within two hours, you shall have
My master busy examining o’ the works;
And I will steal you in unto the party,
That you may see her converse. [To SURLY] Sir, shall I say
You’ll meet the Captain’s worship?