MAM. 'Tis like your Irish wood, 'Gainst cob-webs. I have a piece of Jason's fleece, too, Which was no other than a book of alchemy, Writ in large sheep-skin, 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 gathered into Jason's helm, The alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his field, And thence sublimed so often, till they're fixed. Both this, the Hesperian garden, Cadmus' story, Jove's shower, the boon of Midas, Argus' eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract riddles of our stone. [ENTER FACE, AS A SERVANT.] --How now! Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? FACE. The evening will set red upon you, sir; You have colour for it, crimson: the red ferment Has done his office; three hours hence prepare you To see projection. MAM. Pertinax, my Surly. Again 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 bolt's-head? FACE. Like a wench with child, sir, That were but now discover'd to her master. MAM. Excellent witty Lungs!--my only care 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. MAM. That's true. FACE. Yes. Let them stand bare, as do their auditory; Or cap them, new, with shingles. MAM. No, good thatch: Thatch will lie light upon the rafters, Lungs.-- Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe, Lost in the embers; and repair this brain, Hurt with the fume 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 colours, sir, Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow, The peacock's tail, the plumed swan. MAM. And, lastly, Thou hast descry'd the flower, the sanguis agni? FACE. Yes, sir. MAM. Where's master? FACE. At his prayers, sir, he; Good man, he's doing his devotions For the success. MAM. Lungs, I will set a period To all thy labours; thou shalt be the master Of my seraglio. FACE. Good, sir. MAM. But do you hear? I'll geld you, Lungs. FACE. Yes, sir. MAM. For I do mean To have a list of wives and concubines, Equal with Solomon, 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 fifty a night.-- Thou'rt sure thou saw'st it blood? FACE. Both blood and spirit, sir.