MAM. Of white oil?

SUB. No, sir, of red. F is come over the helm too,
I thank my Maker, in S. Mary's bath,
And shews lac virginis. Blessed be heaven!
I sent you of his faeces there calcined:
Out of that calx, I have won the salt of mercury.

MAM. By pouring on your rectified water?

SUB. Yes, and reverberating in Athanor.
[RE-ENTER FACE.]
How now! what colour says it?

FACE. The ground black, sir.

MAM. That's your crow's head?

SUR. Your cock's-comb's, is it not?

SUB. No, 'tis not perfect. Would it were the crow!
That work wants something.

SUR [ASIDE]. O, I looked for this.
The hay's a pitching.

SUB. Are you sure you loosed them
In their own menstrue?