Of what is truly beautiful and fair? Beau. I have read somewhere, that man and woman Were, in the first creation, both one piece, And being cleft asunder, ever since Love was an appetite to be rejoin'd. Lov. It is a fable of Plato's, in his banquet, And utter'd there by Aristophanes. Host. 'Twas well remember'd here, and to good use. But on with your description what love is. Desire of union with the thing beloved. Lov. I meant a definition. For I make The efficient cause, what's beautiful and fair. The final cause, the union itself. But larger, if you 'll have it, by description: Dead in the proper corps, quick in another's: That he, or she, that loves, engraves or stamps Is both the parent and the nurse of love. So much more excellent as it least relates Unto the body; circular, eternal ; Not feign'd, or made, but born: And then, so precious, As nought can value it but itself, So free, As nothing can command it but itself. And in itself so round and liberal, As, where it favors, it bestows itself. But we must take and understand this love Along still as a name of dignity, Not pleasure. True love hath no unworthy thought, no light PART II. But fixed, constant, pure, immutable. Beau. I relish not these philosophical feasts; Smooth dainty hand to touch; and, for my taste, Lov. They are the earthly, lower form of lovers, In ordering of an army, in our style, An eye, lip, nose, hand, foot, or other part, Move not, which only can make the return. One and the same, proceedeth first from weighing, Benevolence breeds friendship, friendship love : It is a mere degenerate appetite, A lost, oblique, deprav'd affection, And bears no mark or character of love. From note of which though for a while we may [These and the preceding extracts may serve to show the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old Bard. A thousand beautiful passages might be adduced from those numerous court masques and entertainments which he was in the daily habit of furnishing, to prove the same thing. But they do not come within my plan. That which follows is a specimen of that talent for comic humor, and the assemblage of ludicrous images, on which his reputation chiefly rests. It may serve for a variety after so many serious extracts.] THE ALCHEMIST: A COMEDY. BY BEN. JONSON. Epicure Mammon, a Knight, deceived by the pretensions of Subtle (the Alchemist), glories in the prospect of obtaining the Philosopher's Stone; and promises what rare things he will do with it. MAMMON. SURLY, his Friend. The Scene, SUBTLE's House. Mam. Come on, Sir. Now you set your foot on shore In novo orbe. Here's the rich Peru; And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon's Ophir! He was sailing to 't Three years, but we have reached it in ten months. I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. You shall no more deal with the hollow dye, Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping The livery punk for the young heir, that must If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is Or go a feasting after drum and ensign. No more of this. You shall start up young Viceroys, Where is my Subtle there? within ho FACE answers from within. He'll come to you by and by. Mam. That's his fire-drake, His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals Till he firk Nature up in her own centre. You are not faithful, sir. This night I'll change And early in the morning will I send To all the plumbers and the pewterers, And buy their tin and lead up; and to Lothbury, For all the copper. Sur. What, and turn that too? Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, And make them perfect Indies? You admire now ? Sur. No, faith. Mam. But when you see the effects of the great medicine! Of which one part projected on a hundred Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon, Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ; Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. Mam. Ha! why, Do you think I fable with you? I assure you, To whom he will. In eight and twenty days Restore his years, renew him like an eagle, To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters, (The ancient patriarchs afore the flood) But taking, once a week, on a knife's point The quantity of a grain of mustard of it, Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you, That keep the fire alive there. Mam. 'Tis the secret |