Classic Poem

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 Salomon's Ophir! He was sayling to't,
Three yeeres, but we have reach't 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 deale with the hollow die,
Or the fraile card. No more be at charge of keeping
The livery-punke, for the young heire, that must
Seale, at all houres, in his shirt. No more
If he denie, ha' him beaten to't, as he is
That brings him the commoditie. No more
Shall thirst of satten, or the covetous hunger
Of velvet entrailes, for a rude-spun cloke,
To be displaid at Madame Augusta's, make
The sonnes of sword, and hazzard fall before
The golden calfe, and on their knees, whole nights,
Commit idolatrie with wine, and trumpets:
Or goe a feasting, after drum and ensigne.
No more of this. You shall start up yong Vice-royes,
And have your punques, and punquettes, my Surly.
And unto thee, I speake it first, be rich.
Where is my Subtle, there? Within hough?
(Voice within.)
Sir.
Hee'll come to you, by and by.
mammon:That's his fire-drake,
His lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffes his coales,
Till he firke nature up, in her owne center.
You are not faithfull, sir. This night, I'll change
All, that is mettall, in thy house, to gold.
And, early in the morning, will I send
To all the plumbers, and the pewterers,
And buy their tin, and lead up: and to Lothbury,
For all the copper.
surly:What, and turne that too?
mammon:Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire, and Cornwaile,
And make them perfect Indies! You admire now?
surly:No faith.
mammon:But when you see th' effects of the great med'cine!
Of which one part projected on a hundred
Of Mercurie, or Venus, or the Moone,
Shall turne it, to as many of the Sunne;
Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum:
You will beleeve me.
surly:Yes, when I see't, I will.
But, if my eyes doe cossen me so (and I
Giving 'hem no occasion) sure, I'll have
A whore, shall pisse 'hem out, next day.
mammon:Ha! Why?
Doe you thinke, I fable with you? I assure you,
He that has once the flower of the sunne,
The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,
Not onely can doe that, but by it's vertue,
Can confer honour, love, respect, long life,
Give safetie, valure: yea, and victorie,
To whom he will. In eight, and twentie dayes,
I'll make an old man, of fourescore, a childe.
surly:No doubt, he's that alreadie.
mammon:Nay, I meane,
Restore his yeeres, renew him, like an eagle,
To the fifth age; make him get sonnes, and daughters,
Yong giants; as our Philosophers have done
(The antient Patriarkes afore the floud)
But taking, once a weeke, on a knives point,
The quantitie of a graine of mustard, of it:
Become stout Marses, and beget yong Cupids.
surly:The decay'd Vestall's of Pickt-hatch would thanke you,
That keepe the fire a-live, there.
mammon:'Tis the secret
Of nature, naturiz'd 'gainst all infections,
Cures all diseases, comming of all causes,
A month's griefe, in a day; a yeeres, in twelve:
And, of what age soever, in a month.
Past all the doses, of your drugging Doctors.
I'll undertake, withall, to fright the plague
Out o' the kingdome, in three months.
surly:And I'll
Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then,
Without their poets.
mammon:Sir, I'll doo't. Meantime,
I'll give away so much, unto my man,
Shall serve th'whole citie, with preservative,
Weekely, each house his dose, and at the rate--
surly:As he that built the water-worke, do's with water?
mammon:You are incredulous.
surly:Faith, I have a humor,
I would not willingly be gull'd. Your stone
Cannot transmute me.
mammon:Pertinax, Surly,
Will you beleeve antiquitie? recordes?
I'll shew you a booke, where Moses, and his sister,
And Salomon have written, of the art;
I, and a treatise penn'd by Adam.
surly:How!
mammon:O' the Philosophers stone, and in high-Dutch.
surly:Did Adam write, sir, in high-Dutch?
mammon:He did:
Which proves it was the primitive tongue.
surly:What paper?
mammon:On cedar board.
surly:O that, indeed (they say)
Will last 'gainst wormes.
mammon:'Tis like your Irish wood,
'Gainst cob-webs. I have a peece of Jasons fleece, too,
Which was no other, then a booke of alchemie,
Writ in large sheepe-skin, a good fat ram-vellam.
Such was Pythagora's thigh, Pandora's tub;
And, all that fable of Medeas charmes,
The manner of our worke: The Bulls, our fornace,
Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the Dragon:
The Dragons teeth, mercury sublimate,
That keepes the whitenesse, hardnesse, and the biting;
And they are gather'd, into Jason's helme,
(Th' alembeke) and then sow'd in Mars his field,
And, thence, sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd.
Both this, th' Hesperian garden, Cadmus storie,
Jove's shower, the boone of Midas, Argus eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
All abstract riddles of our stone. How now?
Enter Face
Doe wee succeed? Is our day come? and hold's it?
face:The evening will set red, upon you, sir;
You have colour for it, crimson: the red ferment
Has done his office. Three houres hence, prepare you
To see projection.
mammon:Pertinax, my Surly,
Againe, I say to thee, aloud: be rich.
This day, thou shalt have ingots: and, to morrow,
Give lords th'affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right?
Blushes the bolts-head?
face:Like a wench with child, sir,
That were, but now, discover'd to her master.
mammon:Excellent wittie Lungs! My onely care is,
Where to get stuffe, inough now, to project on,
This towne will not halfe serve me.
face:No, sir? Buy
The covering of o' churches.
mammon:That's true.
face:Yes.
Let 'hem stand bare, as doe their auditorie.
Or cap 'hem, new, with shingles.
mammon:No, good thatch:
Thatch will lie light upo' the rafters, Lungs.
Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the fornace;
I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe,
Lost in the embers; and repaire this braine,
Hurt wi' the fume o' the mettalls.
face:I have blowne, sir,
Hard, for your worship; throwne by many a coale,
When 'twas not beech; weigh'd those I put in, just,
To keepe your heat, still even; These bleard-eyes
Have wak'd, to reade your severall colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the greene lyon, the crow,
The peacocks taile,, the plumed swan.
mammon:And, lastly,
Thou hast descryed the flower, the sanguis agni?
face:Yes, sir.
mammon:Where's master?
face:At's praiers, sir, he,
Good man, hee's doing his devotions,
For the successe.
mammon:Lungs, I will set a period,
To all thy labours: Thou shalt be the master
Of my seraglia.
face:Good, sir.
mammon:But doe you heare?
I'll geld you, Lungs.
face:Yes, sir.
mammon:For I doe meane
To have a list of wives, and concubines,
Equall with Salomon; 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 fiftie a night.
Th'art sure, thou saw'st it bloud?
face:Both bloud, and spirit, sir.
mammon:I will have all my beds, blowne up; not stuft:
Downe is too hard. And then, mine oval roome,
Fill'd with such pictures, as Tiberius tooke
From Elephantis: and dull Aretine
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses,
Cut in more subtill angles, to disperse,
And multiply the figures, as I walke
Naked between my succubae. My mists
I'le have of perfume, vapor'd 'bout the roome,
To loose our selves in; and my baths, like pits
To fall into: from whence, we will come forth,
And rowle us drie in gossamour, and roses.
(Is it arriv'd at ruby?)--Where I spie
A wealthy citizen, or rich lawyer,
Have a sublim'd pure wife, unto that fellow
I'll send a thousand pound, to be my cuckold.
face:And I shall carry it?
mammon:No. I'll ha' no bawds,
But fathers, and mothers. They will doe 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 fooles,
Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets
The same that writ so subtly of the fart,
Whom I will entertaine, still, for that subject.
The few, that would give out themselves, to be
Court, and towne-stallions, and, each where, belye
Ladies, who are knowne most innocent, for them;
Those will I begge, to make me eunuchs of:
And they shall fan me with ten estrich tailes
A piece, made in a plume, to gather wind.
We will be brave, Puffe, now we ha' the med'cine.
My meat, shall all come in, in Indian shells,
Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, saphyres, hiacynths, and rubies.
The tongues of carpes, dormise, and camels heeles,
Boil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearle,
(Apicius diet, 'gainst the epilepsie)
And I will eate these broaths, with spoones of amber,
Headed with diamant, and carbuncle.
My foot-boy shall eate phesants, calverd salmons,
Knots, godwits, lamprey's: I my selfe will have
The beards of barbels, serv'd, in stead of sallades;
Oild mushromes; and the swelling unctuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Drest with an exquisite, and poynant sauce;
For which, Ile say unto my cooke, there's gold,
Goe forth, and be a knight.
face:Sir, I'll goe looke
A little, how it heightens.
mammon:Doe. My shirts
I'll have of taffata-sarsnet, soft, and light
As cob-webs; and for all my other rayment
It shall be such, as might provoke the Persian;
Were he to teach the world riot, a new.
My gloves of fishes, and birds-skins, perfum'd
With gummes of paradise, and easterne aire--
surly:And do'you thinke, to have the stone, with this?
mammon:No, I doe thinke, t'have all this, with the stone.