Mammon: ’Tis like your English wood ’Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason’s fleece too, which was no other than a book of alchemy, Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellum. Such was Pythagoras’ thigh, Pandora’s tub, And all that fable of Medea’s charms, The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace, Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the dragon: The dragon’s teeth, mercury sublimate, That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting; And they are gather’d into Jason’s helm, Th’alembic, and then sow’d in Mars his field. And thence sublim’d so often, that they’re fix’d. Both this, th’ Hesperian garden, Cadmus’ story, Jove’s shower, the boom of Midas, Argus’ eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract riddles of our stone.—How now! In another scene, amatory potency is expressed in lavish rhetorical imagery: Mammon: Do we succeed? Is our day come? And holds it? Face: The evening will set red upon you, sir; You have color for it, crimson: the red ferment Has done his office; three hours hence prepare you To see projection. Mammon: Pertinax, my Surly, Again I say to thee, aloud, BE RICH. This day thou shalt have ingots; and tomorrow Give lords th’affront.—Is it, my Zephyrus, right? Blushes the bolt’s-head? Face: Like a wench with child, sir, That were but now discover’d to her master. Mammon: Excellent witty Lungs!—My only care is Where to get stuff enough now, to project on; This town will not half serve me. Face: No, sir? Buy the covering off o’ churches. Mammon: That’s true. Face: Yes. Let ’em stand bare, as do their auditory; Or cap ’em new with shingles. Mammon: No, good thatch: Thatch will lie upo’ the rafters, Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff, Lost in the embers; and repair this brain, Hurt wi’ the fumes o’ the metals. Face: I have blown, sir, Hard, for your worship; thrown by many a coal, When ’twas not beech; weigh’d those I put in, just To keep your heat still even. These blear’d eyes Have wak’d to read your several colors, sir, Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow, The peacock’s tail, the plumed swan. Mammon: And lastly, Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis agni? Face: Yes, sir. Mammon: Where’s master? Face: At’s prayers, sir, he; Good man, he’s doing his devotions For the success.