Ron. Of vulgar men and houses.
Pan. Whose lodging's this? is't not the astrologer's?
Ron. His lodging! no: 'tis the learn'd frontisterion[244]
Of most divine Albumazar.
Pan. Good sir,
If the door break, a better shall redeem it.
Ron. How! all your land, sold at a hundred years' purchase,
Cannot repair the damage of one poor rap:
To thunder at the frontisterion
Of great Albumazar!
Pan. Why, man, what harm?
Ron. Sir, you must know my master's heavenly brain,
Pregnant with mysteries of metaphysics,
Grows to an embryo of rare contemplation
Which, at full time brought forth, excels by far
The armed fruit of Vulcan's midwif'ry,
That leap'd from Jupiter's mighty cranium.
Pan. What of all this?
Ron. Thus: one of your bold thunders may abortive,
And cause that birth miscarry, that might have prov'd
An instrument of wonders, greater and rarer
Than Apollonius the magician wrought.[245]