Mammon: 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 honor, love, respect, long life; Give safety, valor, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight and twenty days, I’ll make an old man of fourscore, a child. Surly: No doubt; he’s that already. 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. Surly: The decay’d vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you, That keep the fire alive there. Mammon: ’Tis the secret Of nature naturiz’d ’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 o’ the kingdom in three months. Surly: And I’ll Be bound, the players shall sing your praises then, Without their poets. Mammon: Sir, I’ll do it. Meantime, I’ll give away so much unto my man, Shall serve th’ whole city with preservative weekly; each house his dose, and at the rate— Surly: As he that built the Water-work does 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 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 penn’d by Adam— Surly: How! Mammon: Of the philosopher’s 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 worms.