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A man who is unwell lies in bed and receives the preparation from the chemist, who assures him of its safety and curative power “I warrant you”, he says. But the effect of the touted elixir is rapid death: two mourners for the late patient react: “Sumus fumus” (We are but smoke) and wry “Thanks to the Chymist”, while a third, his elbow on the catafalque, concludes sorrowfully “Not by art but Chymicallie.”