Mam. He did,

Which proves

it was the primitive tongue.

Sur. What paper?

Mam. On cedar-board.

Sur. O that, indeed, they say,

Will last 'gainst worms.

Mam. Tis like your Irish wood

'Gainst cobwebs. 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 gather'd into Jason's helm

(Th' Alembick) and then sow'd in Mars his field,
And thence sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd.
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.

How now ?

Face enters.

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,

Mam. 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.

Mam. That's true,

Face, Yes.

Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory;
Or cap 'em 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 waked to read your several colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the green lyon, the crow,
The peacock's tail, the plumed swan
Mam. And lastly,

Thou hast descried 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. 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 art sure thou saw'st it blood?
Face. Both blood and spirit, sir.

Mam.

Mam. I will have all my beds blown up; not stuft : Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room

Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took
From Elephantis, and dull Aretine
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses
Cut in more subtil angles, to disperse
And multiply the figures, as I walk
Naked between my Succuba. My mists
I'll have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the room,
To lose ourselves in; and my baths, like pits
To fall into from whence we will come forth,
And roll us dry in gossamour and roses.
(Is it arriv'd at Ruby?)-Where I spy
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?

Mam. No, I'll have no bawds,

But fathers and mothers. They will do it best,
Best of all others. And my flatterers
Shall be the pure and gravest of divines
That I can get for money. My meet fools,
Eloquent burgesses; and then my poets,
The same that writ so subtily of the Fart:
Whom I will entertain still for that subject,
The few that would give out themselves to be
Court and town stallions, and each-where belye
Ladies, who are known most innocent (for them)
Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of:
And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails
A piece, made in a plume, to gather wind.
We will be brave, Puffe, now we ha' the medicine
My meat shall all come in in Indian shells,
Dishes of Agate set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, saphires, hyacinths, and rubies:
The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels,
Boil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearl,
(Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy)

And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber,

Headed

Headed with diamant and carbuncle.

My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd salmons,
Knots, godwits, lampreys: I myself will have
The beards of barbels serv'd, in stead of sallads;
Oil'd mushrooms; and the swelling unctuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,

Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce:
For which, I'll say unto my cook, "There's gold,
Go forth, and be a knight."

Face. Sir, I'll go look

A little, how it heightens.

Mam. Do.-My shirts

I'll have of taffata-sarsnet, soft and light
As cobwebs ; and, for all my other rayment,
It shall be such as might provoke the Persian,
Were he to teach the world riot anew.

My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins, perfum'd
With gums of paradise, and eastern air.

Sur. And do you think to have the Stone with this?
Mam. No, I do think to have all this with the Stone.
Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be homo frugi,
A pious, holy, and religious man,

One free from mortal sin, a very virgin
Sir, he is so.

But I buy it.

Mam. That makes it
My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch,
A notable, superstitious, good soul,

Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald,
With prayer and fasting for it: and, sir, let him
Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes.
Not a prophane word, afore him: tis poison.92

92 The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge with which Mammon confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive strokes of Nilus. They "doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects before we have testimony for their causes: as a lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes passes for an argument to prove the existence of such a place. If there be no one image which rises to the height of the sublime, yet the confluence and assem

blage

VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX. A COMEDY. BY BEN JONSON.

Volpone, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is without children, feigns himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as paz their court to him in the expectation of becoming his heirs. Mosca, his knavish confederate, persuades each of these men in turn, that he is named for the inheritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly presents.

VOLPONE as on his death bed. MOSCA. CORBACCIO, an old gentleman.

Mos. Signior Corbaccio,

You are very welcome, sir.

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.

Corb. What? mends he?

Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse.

Corb.

blage of them all produces an effect equal to the grandest poetry. Zerxes' army that drank up whole rivers from their numbers may stand for single Achilles.-Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of the author. It has the whole "matter and copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown:" It is just such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his "image and superscription:" but Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another lying overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure Mammon. What a 66 towring bravery" there is in his sensuality! He affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if "Egypt with Assyria strove in luxury."