“Enough, enough of this,” cried the necromancer, “and tell me, how stand the people affected? What malcontents and mutineers?” “Mutiny,” said I, “is so universal a disease that every kingdom is (in effect) but a great hospital, or rather a Bedlam (for all men are mad) to entertain the disaffected.” “There’s no stirring for me then,” quoth the necromancer, “but pray’e commend me however to those busy fools, and tell them, that carry what face they will, there’s vanity and ambition in the pad. Kings and princes have their nature much of quick-silver. They are in perpetual agitation, and without any repose. Press them too hard (that is to say beyond the bounds of duty and reason) and they are lost. Ye may observe that your guilders and great dealers in quick-silver are generally troubled with the palsy; and so should all subjects tremble that have to do with majesty, and better to do it at first, out of respect, than afterward, upon force and necessity.
“But before I fall to pieces again, as you saw me e’en now (for better so than worse) I beseech ye, one word more, and it shall be my last. Who’s King of Spain now?” “You know,” said I, “that Philip the 3rd is dead.” “Right,” quoth he, “a prince of incomparable piety, and virtue (or my stars deceive me).” “After him,” said I, “came Philip the 4th.” “If it be so,” quoth he, “break, break my bottle immediately, and help me out; for I am resolved to try my fortune in the world once again, under the reign of that glorious prince.” And with that word, he dashed the glass to pieces against a rock, crept out of his case and away he ran. I had a good mind to have kept him company; but as I was just about to start, “Let him go, let him go,” cried one of the dead, and laid hold of my arm. “He has devilish heels, and you’ll never overtake him.”
So I stayed, and what should I see next but a wondrous old man, whose name might have been Bucephalus by his head; and the hair on his face might very well have stuffed a couple of cushions: take him together, and you’ll find his picture in the map, among the savages. I need not tell ye that I stared upon him sufficiently; and he taking notice of it, came to me, and told me: “Friend,” says he, “my spirit tells me that you are now in pain to know who I am; understand that my name is Nostradamus.” “Are you the author, then,” quoth I, “of that gallimaufry of prophecies that’s published in your name?” “Gallimaufry say’st thou? Impudent and barbarous rascal that thou art; to despise mysteries that are above thy reach, and to revile the secretary of the stars, and the interpreter of the destinies; who is so brutal as to doubt the meaning of these lines?