Ron. Sir, 'tis a perspicil,[246] the best under heaven:
With this I'll read a leaf of that small Iliad
That in a walnut-shell was desk'd, as plainly
Twelve long miles off, as you see Paul's from High-gate.
Pan. Wonderful workman of so rare an instrument!
Ron. 'Twill draw the moon so near, that you would swear
The bush of thorns in't pricks your eyes: the crystal
Of a large arch multiplies millions,
Works more than by point-blank, and by refractions
Optic and strange searcheth, like the eye of truth,
All closets that have windows. Have at Rome!
I see the pope, his cardinals and his mule,
The English college and the Jesuits,
And what they write and do.
Pan. Let me see, too.
Ron. So far you cannot: for this glass is fram'd
For eyes of thirty; you are nigh threescore.
But for some fifty miles 'twill serve you,
With help of a refractive glass that's yonder.
For trial, sir; where are you now?
Pan. In London.
Ron. Ha' you found the glass within that chamber?
Pan. Yes.
Ron. What see you?
Pan. Wonders! wonders! I see, as in a landscape,
An honourable throng of noble persons,
As clear as I were under the same roof:
Seems by their gracious brows and courteous looks
Something they see, which if it be indifferent,
They'll fav'rably accept: if otherwise,
They'll pardon: who or what they be, I know not.