  A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER VOLPONE. VOLP: Well, I am here, and all this brunt is past. I ne'er was in dislike with my disguise Till this fled moment; here 'twas good, in private; But in your public,—cave whilst I breathe. 'Fore God, my left leg began to have the cramp, And I apprehended straight some power had struck me With a dead palsy: Well! I must be merry, And shake it off. A many of these fears Would put me into some villanous disease, Should they come thick upon me: I'll prevent 'em. Give me a bowl of lusty wine, to fright This humour from my heart. [DRINKS.] Hum, hum, hum! 'Tis almost gone already; I shall conquer. Any device, now, of rare ingenious knavery, That would possess me with a violent laughter, Would make me up again. [DRINKS AGAIN.] So, so, so, so! This heat is life; 'tis blood by this time:—Mosca! [ENTER MOSCA.] MOS: How now, sir? does the day look clear again? Are we recover'd, and wrought out of error, Into our way, to see our path before us? Is our trade free once more? VOLP: Exquisite Mosca! MOS: Was it not carried learnedly? VOLP: And stoutly: Good wits are greatest in extremities. MOS: It were a folly beyond thought, to trust Any grand act unto a cowardly spirit: You are not taken with it enough, methinks? VOLP: O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench: The pleasure of all woman-kind's not like it. MOS: Why now you speak, sir. We must here be fix'd; Here we must rest; this is our master-piece; We cannot think to go beyond this. VOLP: True. Thou hast play'd thy prize, my precious Mosca. MOS: Nay, sir, To gull the court— VOLP: And quite divert the torrent Upon the innocent. MOS: Yes, and to make So rare a music out of discords— VOLP: Right. That yet to me's the strangest, how thou hast borne it! That these, being so divided 'mongst themselves, Should not scent somewhat, or in me or thee, Or doubt their own side. MOS: True, they will not see't. Too much light blinds them, I think. Each of them Is so possest and stuft with his own hopes, That any thing unto the contrary, Never so true, or never so apparent, Never so palpable, they will resist it— VOLP: Like a temptation of the devil. MOS: Right, sir. Merchants may talk of trade, and your great signiors Of land that yields well; but if Italy Have any glebe more fruitful than these fellows, I am deceiv'd. Did not your advocate rare? VOLP: O—"My most honour'd fathers, my grave fathers, Under correction of your fatherhoods, What face of truth is here? If these strange deeds May pass, most honour'd fathers"—I had much ado To forbear laughing. MOS: It seem'd to me, you sweat, sir. VOLP: In troth, I did a little. MOS: But confess, sir, Were you not daunted? VOLP: In good faith, I was A little in a mist, but not dejected; Never, but still my self. MOS: I think it, sir. Now, so truth help me, I must needs say this, sir, And out of conscience for your advocate: He has taken pains, in faith, sir, and deserv'd, In my poor judgment, I speak it under favour, Not to contrary you, sir, very richly— Well—to be cozen'd. VOLP: Troth, and I think so too, By that I heard him, in the latter end. MOS: O, but before, sir: had you heard him first Draw it to certain heads, then aggravate, Then use his vehement figures—I look'd still When he would shift a shirt: and, doing this Out of pure love, no hope of gain— VOLP: 'Tis right. I cannot answer him, Mosca, as I would, Not yet; but for thy sake, at thy entreaty, I will begin, even now—to vex them all, This very instant. MOS: Good sir. VOLP: Call the dwarf And eunuch forth. MOS: Castrone, Nano! [ENTER CASTRONE AND NANO.] NANO: Here. VOLP: Shall we have a jig now? MOS: What you please, sir. VOLP: Go, Straight give out about the streets, you two, That I am dead; do it with constancy, Sadly, do you hear? impute it to the grief Of this late slander. [EXEUNT CAST. AND NANO.] MOS: What do you mean, sir? VOLP: O, I shall have instantly my Vulture, Crow, Raven, come flying hither, on the news, To peck for carrion, my she-wolfe, and all, Greedy, and full of expectation— MOS: And then to have it ravish'd from their mouths! VOLP: 'Tis true. I will have thee put on a gown, And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heir: Shew them a will; Open that chest, and reach Forth one of those that has the blanks; I'll straight Put in thy name. MOS [GIVES HIM A PAPER.]: It will be rare, sir. VOLP: Ay, When they ev'n gape, and find themselves deluded— MOS: Yes. VOLP: And thou use them scurvily! Dispatch, get on thy gown. MOS [PUTTING ON A GOWN.]: But, what, sir, if they ask After the body? VOLP: Say, it was corrupted. MOS: I'll say it stunk, sir; and was fain to have it Coffin'd up instantly, and sent away. VOLP: Any thing; what thou wilt. Hold, here's my will. Get thee a cap, a count-book, pen and ink, Papers afore thee; sit as thou wert taking An inventory of parcels: I'll get up Behind the curtain, on a stool, and hearken; Sometime peep over, see how they do look, With what degrees their blood doth leave their faces, O, 'twill afford me a rare meal of laughter! MOS [PUTTING ON A CAP, AND SETTING OUT THE TABLE, ETC.]: Your advocate will turn stark dull upon it. VOLP: It will take off his oratory's edge. MOS: But your clarissimo, old round-back, he Will crump you like a hog-louse, with the touch. VOLP: And what Corvino? MOS: O, sir, look for him, To-morrow morning, with a rope and dagger, To visit all the streets; he must run mad. My lady too, that came into the court, To bear false witness for your worship— VOLP: Yes, And kist me 'fore the fathers; when my face Flow'd all with oils. MOS: And sweat, sir. Why, your gold Is such another med'cine, it dries up All those offensive savours: it transforms The most deformed, and restores them lovely, As 'twere the strange poetical girdle. Jove Could not invent t' himself a shroud more subtle To pass Acrisius' guards. It is the thing Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty. VOLP: I think she loves me. MOS: Who? the lady, sir? She's jealous of you. VOLP: Dost thou say so? [KNOCKING WITHIN.] MOS: Hark, There's some already. VOLP: Look. MOS: It is the Vulture: He has the quickest scent. VOLP: I'll to my place, Thou to thy posture. [GOES BEHIND THE CURTAIN.] MOS: I am set. VOLP: But, Mosca, Play the artificer now, torture them rarely. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT: How now, my Mosca? MOS [WRITING.]: "Turkey carpets, nine"— VOLT: Taking an inventory! that is well. MOS: "Two suits of bedding, tissue"— VOLT: Where's the Will? Let me read that the while. [ENTER SERVANTS, WITH CORBACCIO IN A CHAIR.] CORB: So, set me down: And get you home. [EXEUNT SERVANTS.] VOLT: Is he come now, to trouble us! MOS: "Of cloth of gold, two more"— CORB: Is it done, Mosca? MOS: "Of several velvets, eight"— VOLT: I like his care. CORB: Dost thou not hear? [ENTER CORVINO.] CORB: Ha! is the hour come, Mosca? VOLP [PEEPING OVER THE CURTAIN.]: Ay, now, they muster. CORV: What does the advocate here, Or this Corbaccio? CORB: What do these here? [ENTER LADY POL. WOULD-BE.] LADY P: Mosca! Is his thread spun? MOS: "Eight chests of linen"— VOLP: O, My fine dame Would-be, too! CORV: Mosca, the Will, That I may shew it these, and rid them hence. MOS: "Six chests of diaper, four of damask."—There. [GIVES THEM THE WILL CARELESSLY, OVER HIS SHOULDER.] CORB: Is that the will? |
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