Nor washes it in muscadel and grains,
Nor buries it in gravel, under ground,
Wrapp'd up in greasy leather, or piss'd clouts:
But keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd,
Smell like conserve of roses, or French beans.
He has his maple block, his silver tongs,
Winchester pipes, and fire of Juniper:
A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no goldsmith.

SUB. He is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on.

FACE. Already, sir, have you found it? Lo thee, Abel!

SUB. And in right way toward riches--

FACE. Sir!

SUB. This summer
He will be of the clothing of his company,
And next spring call'd to the scarlet; spend what he can.

FACE. What, and so little beard?

SUB. Sir, you must think,
He may have a receipt to make hair come:
But he'll be wise, preserve his youth, and fine for't;
His fortune looks for him another way.

FACE. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know this so soon?
I am amused at that!

SUB. By a rule, captain,
In metoposcopy, which I do work by;
A certain star in the forehead, which you see not.
Your chestnut or your olive-colour'd face
Does never fail: and your long ear doth promise.
I knew't by certain spots, too, in his teeth,
And on the nail of his mercurial finger.

FACE. Which finger's that?

SUB. His little finger. Look.
You were born upon a Wednesday?

DRUG. Yes, indeed, sir.

SUB. The thumb, in chiromancy, we give Venus;
The fore-finger, to Jove; the midst, to Saturn;
The ring, to Sol; the least, to Mercury,
Who was the lord, sir, of his horoscope,
His house of life being Libra; which fore-shew'd,
He should be a merchant, and should trade with balance.

FACE. Why, this is strange! Is it not, honest Nab?

SUB. There is a ship now, coming from Ormus,
That shall yield him such a commodity
Of drugs
[POINTING TO THE PLAN.]
--This is the west, and this the south?

DRUG. Yes, sir.

SUB. And those are your two sides?

DRUG. Ay, sir.

SUB. Make me your door, then, south; your broad side, west:
And on the east side of your shop, aloft,
Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat;
Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel.
They are the names of those mercurial spirits,
That do fright flies from boxes.

DRUG. Yes, sir.

SUB. And
Beneath your threshold, bury me a load-stone
To draw in gallants that wear spurs: the rest,
They'll seem to follow.

FACE. That's a secret, Nab!