Pan. Are you your master's countryman?
Ron. Yes; why ask you?
Pan. Then must I get an interpreter for your language.
Ron. You need not;
With a wind-instrument my master made,
In five days you may breathe ten languages,
As perfect as the devil or himself.
Pan. When may I speak with him?
Ron. When't please the stars.
He pulls you not a hair, nor pares a nail,
Nor stirs a foot, without due figuring
The horoscope. Sit down awhile, and't please you,
I see the heavens incline to his approach.
Pan. What's this, I pray you?
Ron. An engine to catch stars,
A mace to arrest such planets as have lurk'd
Four thousand years under protection
Of Jupiter and Sol.
Pan. Pray you, speak English.