SCENE II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's house.
[Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been
Doth my lord call?
Get fire and meat for these poor men:
'T has been a turbulent and stormy night.
I have been in many; but such a night as this,
Till now, I ne'er endured.
Your master will be dead ere you return;
There's nothing can be minister'd to nature
That can recover him.
Give this to the 'pothecary,
And tell me how it works.
[Exeunt all but Cerimon.]
[Enter two Gentlemen.]
Good morrow to your lordship.
Why do you stir so early?
Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,
Shook as the earth did quake;
The very principals did seem to rend,
And all-to topple: pure surprise and fear
Made me to quit the house.
That is the cause we trouble you so early;
'Tis not our husbandry.
O, you say well.
But I much marvel that your lordship, having
Rich tire about you, should at these early hours
Shake off the golden slumber of repose.
'Tis most strange,
Nature should be so conversant with pain.
Being thereto not compell'd.
I hold it ever,
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs
May the two latter darken and expend;
But immortality attends the former,
Making a man a god. 'Tis known, I ever
Have studied physic, through which secret art,
By turning o'er authorities, I have,
Together with my practice, made familiar
To me and to my aid the blest infusions
That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;
And I can speak of the disturbances
That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me
A more content in course of true delight
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour,
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,
To please the fool and death.
Your honour has through Ephesus pour'd forth
Your charity, and hundreds call themselves
Your creatures, who by you have been restored:
And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even
Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon
Such strong renown as time shall ne'er decay.
[Enter two or three Servants with a chest.]
So; lift there.
What is that?
Sir, even now
Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest:
'Tis of some wreck.
Set 't down, let's look upon 't.
'Tis like a coffin, sir.
Whate'er it be,
'Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight:
If the sea's stomach be o'ercharged with gold,
'Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.
'Tis so, my lord.
How close 'tis caulk'd and bitumed!
Did the sea cast it up?
I never saw so huge a billow, sir,
As toss'd it upon shore.
Wrench it open;
Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense.
A delicate odour.