Pan. So I may have my purpose, spare for no cost.
Alb. Sir, spare your purse; I'll do it an easier way;
The work shall cost you nothing.
We have an art is call'd præstigiatory,[265]
That deals with spirits and intelligences
Of meaner office and condition,
Whose service craves small charges: with one of these
I'll change some servant[266] or good friend of yours
To the perfect shape of this Antonio:
So like in face, behaviour, speech, and action,
That all the town shall swear Antonio lives.
Pan. Most necromantical astrologer!
Do this, and take me for your servant ever.
And, for your pains, after the transformation,
This chain is yours:[267] it cost two hundred pound,
Beside the jewel.
Alb. After the work is finish'd, then—how now?
What lines are these, that look sanguineous,
As if the stars conjur'd to do you mischief?
Pan. How! mean you me?
Alb. They're dusky marks of Saturn:
It seems some stone shall fall upon your head,
Threat'ning a fracture of the pericranium.
Pan. Cricca, come hither; fetch me my staff again;
Threescore and ten's return'd: a general palsy
Shakes out the love of Flavia with a fear.
Is there no remedy?
Alb. Nothing but patience.
The planet threatens so, whose prey you are.
The stars and planets daily war together;
For, should they stand at truce but one half-hour,
This wond'rous machine of the world would ruin:
Who can withstand their powerful influence?
Pan. You with your wisdom, good Albumazar.