| |
FACE. SUBTLE. [Enter] DOL 1
SUB. What says my dainty Dolkin? | |
| DOL. Yonder fish-wife | |
| Will not away. And there’s your giantess, | |
| The bawd of Lambeth. | 4 |
| SUB. Heart, I cannot speak with ’em. | |
| DOL. Not afore night, I have told ’em in a voice, | |
| Thorough the trunk, like one of your familiars. | |
| But I have spied Sir Epicure Mammon—— | 8 |
| SUB. Where? | |
| DOL. Coming along, at far end of the lane, | |
| Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue | |
| To one that’s with him. | 12 |
| SUB. Face, go you and shift. | |
| Dol, you must presently make ready too. [Exit FACE] | |
| DOL. Why, what’s the matter? | |
| SUB. O, I did look for him | 16 |
| With the sun’s rising: marvel he could sleep. | |
| This is the day I am to perfect for him | |
| The magisterium, our great work, the stone; | |
| And yield it, made, into his hands: of which | 20 |
| He has, this month, talk’d as he were possess’d. | |
| And now he’s dealing pieces on’t away. | |
| Methinks I see him ent’ring ordinaries, | |
| Dispensing for the pox, and plaguy houses, | 24 |
| Reaching his dose, walking Moorfields for lepers, | |
| And off’ring citizens’ wives pomander 2—bracelets, | |
| As his preservative, made of the elixir; | |
| Searching the spittle, to make old bawds young; | 28 |
| And the highways, for beggars, to make rich. | |
| I see no end of his labours. He will make | |
| Nature asham’d of her long sleep: when art, | |
| Who’s but a step-dame, shall do more than she, | 32 |
| In her best love to mankind, ever could. | |
| If his dream last, he’ll turn the age to gold. [Exeunt.] | |
