PAN. I must confess, in years about threescore, But in tough strength of body four-and-twenty, Or few[242] months less. Love of Young Flavia, More powerful than Medea's drugs, renews All decay'd parts of man: my arteries, Blown full with youthful spirits, move the blood To a new business: my wither'd nerves grow plump And strong, longing for action. Hence, thou poor prop Of feebleness and age! walk with such sires, [_Throws away his staff._] As with cold palsies shake away their strength, And lose their legs with cureless gouts. Pandolfo New-moulded is for revels, masques and music. Cricca, String my neglected lute, and from my armoury Scour my best sword, companion of my youth, Without which I seem naked. CRI. Your love, sir, like strong water To a deplor'd sick man, quicks your feeble limbs For a poor moment; but, after one night's lodging, You'll fall so dull and cold, that Flavia Will shriek, and leap from bed as from a sepulchre. Shall I speak plainer, sir? she'll cuckold you-- Alas! she'll cuckold you. PAN. What, me! a man of known discretion; Of riches, years, and this grey gravity? I'll satisfy'r with gold, rich clothes, and jewels. CRI. Were't not far fitter urge your son Eugenio To woo her for himself? PAN. Cricca, begone! Touch no more there: I will and must have Flavia. Tell Lelio, if he grant m' his sister Flavia, I'll give my daughter to him in exchange. Begone, and find me here within this half-hour. SCENE III RONCA, PANDOLFO. RON. 'Tis well that servant's gone: I shall the easier Wind up his master to my purposes. PAN. Sure, this some novice of th' artillery, That winks and shoots: sir, prime your piece anew, The powder's wet. [_Knocks at the door._ RON. A good ascendant:[243] bless me, sir, are you frantic? PAN. Why frantic? are not two knocks the lawful courses To open doors and ears? RON. Of vulgar men and houses. PAN. Whose lodging's this? is't not the astrologer's? RON. His lodging! no: 'tis the learn'd frontisterion[244] Of most divine Albumazar. PAN. Good sir, If the door break, a better shall redeem it. RON. How! all your land, sold at a hundred years' purchase, Cannot repair the damage of one poor rap: To thunder at the frontisterion Of great Albumazar! PAN. Why, man, what harm? RON. Sir, you must know my master's heavenly brain, Pregnant with mysteries of metaphysics, Grows to an embryo of rare contemplation Which, at full time brought forth, excels by far The armed fruit of Vulcan's midwif'ry, That leap'd from Jupiter's mighty cranium. PAN. What of all this?