University of Virginia Library

SCEN. III.

Ballio, Simo.
Ball.
Here comes my mole,
The sonne of earth, that digs his mothers entrals
To turn up treasure for his boy and me.
That with industrious eyes searches to hell
To buy us heaven on earth. Welcome, welcome
Thou age of gold: how do the bags at home?
Are all the chests in health? thrives the purse still?
And sayes it to the talents, Multiply?

Sim.
Thanks to my providence like a swarm! Wealth falls
Not in small drops upon me, (as at first)
But like a torrent overthrows the bank
As it would threat a deluge. Were it not pity
My boy should not invent sluces enow
To drain the copious stream.

Ball.
A thousand pities!
That you should lose the fruits of so much care.

Sim.
True Ballio, true.

Ball.
Trust me, what art can do
Shall not be wanting.

Sim.
I'le not be ungratefull.
It lies in you to turn these silver hairs
To a fresh black again, and by one favour
Cut fortie yeares away from the gray summe.

Ball.
I had rather cut off all, and be our own carvers:—Aside

Sir, if I had Medea's charms to boyl
An aged lambe in some inchaunted caldron
Till he start up a lambe, I would recall
Your youth, and make you like the aged snake
Cast off this wrinckled skin, and skip up fresh
As at fifteen.

Sim.
All this you may and more.
If you will place me where I may unseen
Make my eye witnesse of my sonnes delight,
I shall enjoy the pleasures by beholding 'um.

Ball.
True Sir, you know he's but your second self,
The same you might have been at one and twenty:
The blisse is both's alike.

Sim.
Most Philosophicall!

Ball.
Place your self there.

Sim.
I ha' no words but these
To thank you with.

Ball,
This is true Rhetorick.