Fort. Listen, my sons! in this small compass lies
Infinite treasure: this she gave to me,
And gave to this, this virtue, Take, quoth she,
So often as from hence thou draw’st thy hand,
Ten golden pieces of that kingdom’s coin,
Where’er thou liv’st; which plenteous sure shall last,
After thy death, till thy sons’ lives do waste.
Andel. Father, your choice was rare, the gift divine.
Fort. It had been so, if riches had been mine.
Amp. But hath this golden virtue never failed?
Fort. Never.
Andel. O admirable: here’s a fire
Hath power to thaw the very heart of death,
And give stones life; by this most sacred breath,[379]
See brother, here’s all India in my hand.
Fort. Inherit you, my sons, that golden land.
This hat I brought away from Babylon,
I robbed the Soldan of it, ’tis a prize
Worth twenty empires in this jewel lies.
Andel. How, father? jewel? call you this a jewel? it’s coarse wool, a bald fashion, and greasy to the brim; I have bought a better felt for a French crown forty times: of what virtuous block is this hat, I pray?
Fort. Set it upon thy head, and wish a wish,
Thou in the moment, on the wind’s swift wings,
Shalt be transported into any place.
Andel. A wishing hat, and a golden mine?