 | The Alchemist |  |
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Scene VI.
Svrly, Da. Pliant, Svbtle, Face.
Lady, you see into what hands, you are falne;
Mongst what a nest of villaines! and how neere
Your honor was t'haue catch'd a certaine clap
(Through your credulitie) had I but beene
So punctually forward, as place, time,
And other circumstance would ha' made a man:
For yo'are a handsome woman: would yo' were wise, too.
I am a gentleman, come here disguis'd,
Onely to find the knaueries of this Citadell,
And where I might haue wrong'd your honor, and haue not,
I claime some interest in your loue. You are,
They say, a widdow, rich: and I am a batcheler,
Worth nought: Your fortunes may make me a man,
As mine ha'preseru'd you a woman. Thinke vpon it,
And whether, I haue deseru'd you, or no.
Pli.
I will, sir.
Svb.
And for these houshold-rogues, let me alone,
To treat with them.
Svb.
How doth my noble Diego?
And my deare madame, Countesse? Hath the Count
Beene courteous, lady? liberall? and open?
Donzell, me thinkes you looke melancholike,
After your coitum, and scuruy! True-ly,
I doe not like the dulnesse of your eye:
It hath a heauy cast, 'tis vpsee Dutch,
And say's you are a lumpish whore-master.
Be lighter, I will make your pockets so.
He falls to picking of them.
Svr.
Will you, Don bawd, and pick-purse? How now? Reele you?
Stand vp sir, you shall find since I am so heauy,
I'll gi' you equall weight.
Svr.
Helpe, murder!
Svr.
No, sir.
There's no such thing intended. A good cart,
And a cleane whip shall ease you of that feare.
I am the Spanish Don, that should be cossened,
Doe you see? cossened? Where's your Captayne Face?
That parcell-broker, and whole-bawd, all raskall.
Fac.
How, Svrly!
Svr.
O, make your approach, good Captaine.
I'haue found, from whence your copper rings, and spoones
Come, now, wherewith you cheate abroad in tauernes.
'Twas here, you learn'd t'anoint your boot with brimstone,
Then rub mens gold on't, for a kind of touch,
And say 'twas naught, when you had chang'd the colour,
That you might ha't for nothing? And this Doctor,
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Will close you so much gold, in a bolts-head,
And, on a turne, conuay (i'the stead) another
With sublim'd Mercurie, that shall burst i'the heate,
And flye out all in fumo? Then weepes Mammon:
Then swounes his worship. Or, he is the Favstvs,
That casteth figures, and can coniure, cures
Plague, piles, and poxe, by the Ephemerides,
And holds intelligence with all the bawdes,
And midwiues of three shires? while you send in—
Captaine, (what is he gone?) dam'sells with child,
Wiues, that are barren, or, the waiting-maide
With the greene-sicknesse? Nay, sir, you must tarrie
Though he be scap't; and answere, by the eares, sir.
| The Alchemist | |