THE ALCHEMIST.

A COMEDY.

THE ARGUMENT.

The Sickness hot, a Master quit, for fear,
His House in Town, and left one Servant there.
E ase him corrupted, and gave means to know

A Cheater and his Punk; who, now brought low,
Leaving their narrow Practice, were become
Cos'ners at large; and only wanting some
House to set up, with him they here contract,
Each for a Share, and all begin to act:
Much Company they draw, and much abuse,
In casting Figures, telling Fortunes, News,
Selling of Flies, flat Bawd'ry, with the Stone,
Till it, and they, and all in Fume are gone.

PROLOGUE.

Fortune, that favours Fools, these two short Hours We wish away, both for your sakes and ours, Judging Spectators; and desire in place,

To th' Author Justice, to our selves but Grace. Our Scene is LONDON, 'cause we would make known, No Countries Mirth is better than our own: No Clime breeds better Matter for your Whore,

Bawd, Squire, Impostor, many Persons more, Whose Manners, now call'd Humours, feed the Stage; And which have still been Subject for the Rage

Or Spleen of Comick Writers. Tho' this Pen
Did never aim to grieve, but better Men;
Howe'er the Age he lives in doth endure

The Vices that she breeds, above their Cure.
But when the wholesome Remedies are sweet,
And in their working Gain and Profit meet,
He hopes to find no Spirit so much diseas'd,
But will with such fair Correctives be pleas'd;
For here he doth not fear who can apply.

If there be any that will sit so nigh

Unto the Stream to look what it doth run,

They shall find things, they'ld think, or wish, were done; They are so natural Follies, but so shown,

As even the Doers may see, and yet not own.

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.

SUBTLE, the Alchemist.

FACE, the House-keeper.

DOL. COMMON, their Colleague.

DAPPER, a Clerk.

DRUGGER, a Tobacco-man.

LOVE-WIT, Master of the House.

EPICURE MAMMON, a Knight.

SURLEY, a Gamester.

TRIBULATION, a Pastor of Amsterdam.

ANANIAS, a Deacon there.

KASTRILL, the angry Boy.

DA. PLIANT, his Sister, a Widow.

Neighbours, Officers, Mutes.

The Scene, LONDON.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Face, Subtle, Dol. Common.

Believ't, I will. Sub. Thy worst. If..t at thee.

Out at my

Dol. Ha' you your Wits? Why Gentlemen! for Love. Fac. Sirrah, I'll strip you. Sub. What to do? lick Figs Fac. Rogue, Rogue, out of all your sleights. Dol., Nay, look ye, Sovereign, General, are you Madmen? Sub. O, let the wild Sheep loose. I'll Gum your Silks With good Strong-water, an' you come.

Dol. Will you have

The Neighbours hear you? Will you betray all?

Heark, I hear some body. Fac. Sirrah Sub. I shall mar All that the Taylor has made, if you approach.

Fac. You most notorious Whelp, you insolent Slave, Dare you do this? Sub. Yes faith, yes faith. Fac. Why, who Am I, my Mungril? who am I? Sub. I'll tell you,

Since you know not self your

Fac. Speak lower, Rogue. Sub. Yes, You were once (time's not long past) the good, Honest, plain Livery-three-pound-thrum, that kept

Your Masters Worships House here in the Friers,

For the Vacations

Fac. Will you be so loud?

Sub. Since, by my means, translated Suburb-Captain.

Fac. By your means,

Doctor Dog?

Sub. Within Man's memory,

All this I speak of. Fac. Why, I pray you, have I
Been countenanc'd by you, or you by me?

Do but collect, Sir, where I met you first.

Sub. I do not hear well. Fac. Not of this, I think it.
But I shall put you in mind, Sir; at Pie-corner,
Taking your meal of Steam in, from Cook Stalls;
Where, like the Father of Hunger, you did walk
Piteously costive, with your pinch'd horn-nose,

And your Complexion of the Roman Wash,
Stuck full of black and melancholick Worms,
Like Powder-corns shot at th' Artillery-yard.

Sub. I wish you could advance your Voice a little. Fac. When you went pinn'd up in the several Rags Yo' had rak'd and pick'd from Dunghills, before Day; Your Feet in mouldy Slippers, for your Kibes

A Felt of Rug, and a thin thredden Cloke,

That scarce would cover your no-Buttocks
Sub. So, Sir!

Fac. When all your Alchemy, and your Algebra,
Your Minerals, Vegetals, and Animals,

Your Conjuring, Coz'ning, and your dozen of Trades,
Could not relieve your Corps with so much Linnen
Would make you Tinder, but to see a Fire;
I ga' you Count'nance, Credit for your Coals,
Your Stills, your Glasses, your Materials;
Built you a Fornace, drew you Customers,
Advanc'd all your black Arts; lent you, beside,
A House to practise in · Sub. Your Master's House?
Fac. Where you have studied the more thriving Skill
Of Bawd'ry since. Sub. Yes, in your Master's House.
You and the Rats here kept Possession.

Make it not strange. I know yo' were one could keep
The Buttry-hatch still lock'd, and save the Chippings,
Sell the Dole-Beer to Aquavita-men,

The which, together with your Christmass Vails
At Post and Pair, your letting out of Counters,
Made you a pretty Stock, some twenty Marks,
And gave you credit to converse with Cobwebs,
Here, since your Mistris Death hath broke up House.

Fac. You might talk softlier, Rascal. Sub. No, you Scarabe,

I'll thunder you in Pieces! I will teach you

How to beware to tempt a Fury again,

That carries Tempest in his Hand and Voice.
Fac. The Place has made you valiant.
Sub. No, your Clothes.

Thou Vermin, have I ta'ne thee out of Dung,

So poor, so wretched, when no living Thing
Would keep thee Company, but a Spider, or worse?
Rais'd thee from Brooms, and Dust, and Watring Pots?
Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee
I' the third Region, call'd our State of Grace?
Wrought thee to Spirit, to Quintessence, with pains
Would twice have won me the Philosopher's Work?
Put thee in Words and Fashion, made thee fit
For more than ordinary Fellowships?

Giv'n thee thy Oaths, thy quarrelling Dimensions?
Thy Rules to cheat at Horse-race, Cock-pit, Cards,
Dice, or whatever gallant Tincture else?

Made thee a Second in mine own great Art?
And have I this for Thanks? Do you rebel?
Do you fly out i' the Projection?

Would you be gone now?

Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you?

Will you mar all? Sub. Slave, thou had'st no Name
Dol. Will you undo your selves with civil War?
Sub. Never been known, past Equi clibanum,
The heat of Horse-dung, under Ground, in Cellars,
Or an Ale house darker than deaf John's; been lost
To all Mankind, but Laundresses and Tapsters,
Had not I been.

Dol. Do you know who hears you, Sovereign?
Fac. Sirrah

Dol. Nay, General, I thought you were civil

Fac. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus loud.
Sub. And hang thy self, I care not.

Fac. Hang thee, Colliar,

And all thy Pots and Pans, in Picture, I will,

Since thou hast mov'd me

Dol. (0, this I'll orethrow all.)

Fac. Write thee up Bawd in Paul's, have all thy Tricks Of coz'ning with a hollow Coal, Dust, Scrapings, Searching for things lost with a Sieve and Shears,

Five Centuries.

M