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Volp. I feel me going, uh, uh, uh, uh. I am sailing to my port, uh, uh, uh, uh, And I am glad I am so near my haven.

And return; make knots, and undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up: These men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blessed,
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplexed a tongue,
And loud withal, that could not wag, nor scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a cecchine!
Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you
seen, sir.
[Another knocks.
And yet-pretend you came, and went in haste;
I'll fashion an excuse. And, gentle sir,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I ha' not been your worst of clients.
Volt. Mosca-

Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir?

Or see a copy of the will? anon,

I'll bring 'em to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business i' your face.

Volp. Excellent Mosca !

Come hither, let me kiss thee.
Mos. Keep you still, sir,

Mos. Alas, kind gentleman; well, we must all Here is Corbaccio.

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Mos. Are you?

I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me i' your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship. I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.

Volt. It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca.
Mos. Sir,

I am a man that have not done your love
All the worst offices: Here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets locked,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate, and monies; I am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods are here.

Volt. But am I sole heir?

Mos. Without a partner, sir, confirmed this
morning;

The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.

Volt. Happy, happy me!

By what good chance, sweet Mosca ?
Mos. Your desert, sir;

I know no second cause.

Volt. Thy modesty

Is loth to know it; well, we shall requite it.
Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first
took him.

I oft have heard him say, how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
'Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,

Volp. Set the plate away,

[Exit VOLT.

The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come.

SCENE IV.

MOSCA, CORBACCIO, and VOLPOne. Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your

sleep:

Stand there, and multiply. Now shall we see.
A wretch, who is, indeed, more impotent
Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his grave. Signior Corbaccio!
You're very welcome, sir.

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.
Corb. What? mends he?

Mos. No, sir; he is rather worse.

Corb. That's well. Where is he?

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fallen asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well?

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

Corb. Good! He should take

Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him
An opiate here from mine own doctor-
Mos. He will not hear of drugs.

Corb. Why? I myself

Stood by, while 'twas made; saw all the ingre dients,

| And know it cannot but most gently work.
My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.
Volp. Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.
Mos. Sir, he has no faith in physic.
Corb. Say you? say you?

Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger,

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The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you
Upon my master, and made him your heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude-
Corb. He must pronounce me his.
Mos. 'Tis true.

Corb. This plot did I think on before.
Mos. I do believe it.

Corb. Do you not believe it?

Mos. Yes, sir.

Corb. Mine own project.

Mos. Which when he hath done, sir-
Corb. Published me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him-
Corb. Ay.

Mos. Being so lusty a man-
Corb. 'Tis true.

Mos. Yes, sir

Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he should be

The very organ, to express my thoughts!
Mos. You have not only done yourself a good-
Corb. But multiplied it on my son?
Mos. 'Tis right, sir.

Corb. Still, my invention.

Mos. 'Las, sir, Heaven knows,

It hath been all my study, all my care,

(I e'en grow grey withal) how to work thingsCorb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

Mos. You are he, for whom I labour here. Corb. Ay, do, do, do : I'll straight about it. Mos. Rook go with you, raven.

Corb. I know thee honest.

Mos. You do lie, sir

Corb, And

Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your cares, sir.

Corb. I do not doubt, to be a father to thee.
Mos. Nor I, to gull my brother of his blessing.
Corb. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why
not?

Mos. Your worship is a precious ass-
Corb. What say'st thou?"

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste,

sir.

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Your flux of laughter, sir: you know, this hope Is such a bait, it covers my hook.

Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

Mos. Alas! sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give 'em words; Pour oil into their ears; and send them hence. Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment

Is avarice, to itself?

Mos. Ay, with our help, sir.

Volp. So many cares, so many maladies,
So many fears attending on old age,
Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish

Can be more frequent with 'ein, their limbs faint,

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here, sir,

And he has brought you a rich pearl.

Corv. How do you, sir?

Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract.
Mos. Sir,

He cannot understand, his hearing's gone;
And yet it comforts him to see you——
Coro. Say

I have a diamond for him too.

Mos. Best shew't, sir,

Put it into his hand; 'tis only there
He apprehends: he has his feeling yet:
See, how he grasps it!

Corr. 'Las, good gentleman!
How pitiful the sight is!

Mos. Tut, forget, sir.

The weeping of an heir should still be laughter, Under a visor.

Cory. Why? am I his heir?

Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will Till he be dead: but, here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too,

I cannot number 'em, they were so many, All gaping here for legacies; but I, Taking the advantage of his naming you, (Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino) took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him, Whom he would have his heir? Corvino. Who Should be executor? Corvino. And, To any question he was silent to, I still interpreted the nods he made, (Through weakness) for consent: and sent home th'others,

Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse. Cor. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us? [They embrace. Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows

no man.

No face of friend, nor name of any servant,
Who 'twas that fed him last, or gave him drink:
Not those he hath begotten, or brought up,
Can he remember.

Corv. Has he children?

Mos. Bastards,

Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, Gipsies, and Jews, and Blackanioors, when he was drunk.

Knew you not that, sir? 'Tis the common fable.
The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch are all his ;
He's the true father of his family,

In all, save me: but he has giv'n 'em nothing. Care. That's well, that's well. Art sure he does not hear us?

Mos. Sure, sir? Why, look you, credit your

own sense.

The pox approach, and add to your diseases, If it would send you hence the sooner, sir. For your incontinence it hath deserv'd it Throughly and throughly, and the plague to boot. (You may come near, sir,) would you would once close

Those filthy eyes of your's, that flow with slime, Like two frog-pits; and those same hanging checks,

Cover'd with hide, instead of skin: (Nay, help,

sir,)

That look like frozen dish-clouts, set on end. Corr. Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the rain

Ran down in streaks.

Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out;
You may be louder yet: A culvering,
Discharged in his ear, would hardly bore it.
Corv. His nose is like a common-shore, still
running.

Mes. 'Tis good! and, what his mouth?
Cera. A very draught.
Mos. O, stop it up-
Core. By no means.
Mos. Pray you let me.

Faith, I could stifle him, rarely, with a pillow,
As well as any woman that should keep him.
Corv. Do as you will, but I'll begone.
Mos. Be so;

It is your presence makes him last so long.
Core. I pray you, use no violence.
Mos. No, sir, why

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Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion,
My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes.
Mos. Excepting one.
Core. What's that?

Mos. Your gallant wife, sir. [Erit CORY.
Now, is he gone: We had no other means
To shoot him hence, but this.
Volp. My divine Mosca!

Thou hast to-day outgone thyself. Who's there? [Another knocks.

I will be troubled with no more. Prepare
Me music, dances, banquets, all delights;
The Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures,
Than will Volpone. Let me see, a pearl?
A diamond? plate? cecchines? Good morning's
purchase;

Why, this is better than rob churches yet;
Or fat, by eating (once a month) a man.
Who is't?

Mos. The beauteous lady Would-be, sir,
Wife to the English knight, Sir Politic Would-be,
(This is the stile, sir, is directed me)
Hath sent to you, how you have slept to-night,
And if you would be visited.

Volp. Not now.

Some three hours hence-

Mos. I told the squire so much.

Volp. When I am high with mirth and wine:

Then, then.

'Fore Heav'n, I wonder at the desperate valour Of the bold English, that they dare let loose Their wives to all encounters!

Mos. Sir, this knight

Had not his name for nothing, he is politic,
And knows, howe'er his wife affects strange airs,
She hath not yet the face to be dishonest.
But had she Signior Corvino's wife's face-
Vo'p. Has she so rare a face?
Mos. O, sir, the wonder,

The blazing star of Italy! a wench

O' the first year! a beauty ripe as harvest!
Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over!
Than silver, snow, or lilies! a soft lip,
Would tempt you to eternity of kissing!
And flesh that melteth, in the touch, to blood
Bright as your gold! and lovely as your gold!
Volp. Why, had I not known this before?
Mos. Alas, sir,

Myself but yesterday discovered it.
Volp. How might I see her?

Mos. O, not possible;

She's kept as warily as is your gold:

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POLITIC WOULD-BE and PEREGRINE.

Pol. Sir, to a wise man, all the world's his soil.

It is not Italy, nor France, nor Europe,
That must bound me, if my fates call me forth.
Yet, I protest, it is no salt desire

Of seeing countries, shifting a religion,
Nor any disaffection to the state

Where I was bred, (and unto which I owe
My dearest plots) hath brought me out; much
less,

That idle, antic, stale, gray-headed project
Of knowing men's minds and manners, with
Ulysses:

But, a peculiar humour of my wife's,
Laid for this heighth of Venice, to observe,
To quote, to learn the language, and so forth-
I hope you travel, sir, with licence?

Per. Yes.

Pol. I dare the safelier converse- -How long, sir,

Since you left England?

Per. Seven weeks.

Pol. So lately!

You ha' not been with my lord ambassador!
Per. Not yet, sir.

Pol. Pray you, what news, sir, vents our climate?

I heard, last night, a most strange thing reported
By some of my lord's followers, and I long
To hear how 'twill be seconded!

Per. What was't, sir?

Per. Good sir Politic!

I cry you mercy; I have heard much of you: 'Tis true, sir, of your raven.

Pol. On your knowledge?

Per. Yes, and your lion's whelping in the Tower.

Pol. Another whelp! Per. Another, sir. Pol. Now, Heaven!

What prodigies be these! The fires at Berwick ! And the new star! these things concurring, strange!

And full of omen! Saw you these meteors?
Per. I did, sir.

Pol. Fearful! Pray you, sir, confirm me,
Were there three porpoises seen above the
bridge,
As they give out?

Per. Six, and a sturgeon, sir.

Pol. I am astonish'd!

Per. Nay, sir, be not so;

I'll tell you a greater prodigy than these----
Pol. What should these things portend!
Per. The very day

(Let me be sure) that I put forth from London,
There was a whale discover'd in the river,
As high as Woolwich, that had waited there
(Few know how many months) for the subversion
Of the Stode fleet.

Pol. Is't possible? Believe it,

'Twas either sent from Spain, or the archdukes!
Spinola's whale, upon my life, my credit!
Will they not leave these projects? Worthy sir,
Some other news.

Per. Faith, Stone, the fool, is dead;

Pol. Marry, sir, of a raven, that should build | And they do lack a tavern-fool extremely. In a ship royal of the king's.

Per. This fellow,

Pol. Is Mass' Stone dead!

Per. He's dead, sir: Why, I hope

Does he gull me, trow? or is gull'd? your name, You thought him not immortal? O, this knight

sir?

Pol. My name is Politic Would-be.

Per. O, that speaks him.

A knight, sir?

Pol. A poor knight, sir.

Per. Your lady

Lies here, in Venice, for intelligence
Of tyres, and fashions, and behaviour,

Among the courtezans? the fine lady Would-be ? Pol. Yes, sir; the spider and the bee ofttimes

Suck from one flower,

(Were he well known,) would be a precious thing To fit our English stage! He that should write But such a fellow, should be thought to feign Extremely, if not maliciously.

Pol. Stone dead!

Per. Dead. Lord! how deeply, sir, you apprehend it?

He was no kinsman to you?

Pol. That I know of.

Well! that same fellow was an unknown fool.
Per. And yet you knew him, it seems?
Pol. I did so, sir.

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