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?
MOS: "Down-beds, and bolsters"--
VOLP: Rare!
Be busy still. Now they begin to flutter:
They never think of me. Look, see, see, see!
How their swift eyes run over the long deed,
Unto the name, and to the legacies,
What is bequeath'd them there--
MOS: "Ten suits of hangings"--
VOLP: Ay, in their garters, Mosca. Now their hopes
Are at the gasp.
VOLT: Mosca the heir?
CORB: What's that?
VOLP: My advocate is dumb; look to my merchant,
He has heard of some strange storm, a ship is lost,
He faints; my lady will swoon. Old glazen eyes,
He hath not reach'd his despair yet.
CORB [TAKES THE WILL.]: All these
Are out of hope: I am sure, the man.
CORV: But, Mosca--
MOS: "Two cabinets."
CORV: Is this in earnest?
MOS: "One
Of ebony"--
CORV: Or do you but delude me?
MOS: The other, mother of pearl--I am very busy.
Good faith, it is a fortune thrown upon me--
"Item, one salt of agate"--not my seeking.
LADY P: Do you hear, sir?
MOS: "A perfum'd box"--'Pray you forbear,
You see I'm troubled--"made of an onyx"--
LADY P: How!
MOS: To-morrow or next day, I shall be at leisure
To talk with you all.
CORV: Is this my large hope's issue?
LADY P: Sir, I must have a fairer answer.
MOS: Madam!
Marry, and shall: 'pray you, fairly quit my house.
Nay, raise no tempest with your looks; but hark you,
Remember what your ladyship offer'd me,
To put you in an heir; go to, think on it:
And what you said e'en your best madams did
For maintenance, and why not you? Enough.
Go home, and use the poor sir Pol, your knight, well,
For fear I tell some riddles; go, be melancholy.
[EXIT LADY WOULD-BE.]
VOLP: O, my fine devil!
CORV: Mosca, 'pray you a word.
MOS: Lord! will you not take your dispatch hence yet?
Methinks, of all, you should have been the example.
Why should you stay here? with what thought? what promise?
Hear you; do not you know, I know you an ass,
And that you would most fain have been a wittol,
If fortune would have let you? that you are
A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl,
You'll say, was yours? right: this diamond?
I'll not deny't, but thank you. Much here else?
It may be so. Why, think that these good works
May help to hide your bad. I'll not betray you;
Although you be but extraordinary,
And have it only in title, it sufficeth:
Go home, be melancholy too, or mad.
[EXIT CORVINO.]
VOLP: Rare Mosca! how his villany becomes him!
VOLT: Certain he doth delude all these for me.
CORB: Mosca the heir!
VOLP: O, his four eyes have found it.
CORB: I am cozen'd, cheated, by a parasite slave;
Harlot, thou hast gull'd me.
MOS: Yes, sir. Stop your mouth,
Or I shall draw the only tooth is left.
Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch,
With the three legs, that, here, in hope of prey,
Have, any time this three years, snuff'd about,
With your most grovelling nose; and would have hired
Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir?
Are not you he that have to-day in court
Profess'd the disinheriting of your son?
Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink.
If you but croak a syllable, all comes out:
Away, and call your porters!
[exit corbaccio.]
Go, go, stink.
VOLP: Excellent varlet!
VOLT: Now, my faithful Mosca,
I find thy constancy.
MOS: Sir!
VOLT: Sincere.
MOS [WRITING.]: "A table
Of porphyry"--I marle, you'll be thus troublesome.
VOLP: Nay, leave off now, they are gone.
MOS: Why? who are you?
What! who did send for you? O, cry you mercy,
Reverend sir! Good faith, I am grieved for you,
That any chance of mine should thus defeat
Your (I must needs say) most deserving travails:
But I protest, sir, it was cast upon me,
And I could almost wish to be without it,
But that the will o' the dead must be observ'd,
Marry, my joy is that you need it not,
You have a gift, sir, (thank your education,)
Will never let you want, while there are men,
And malice, to breed causes. Would I had
But half the like, for all my fortune, sir!
If I have any suits, as I do hope,
Things being so easy and direct, I shall not,
I will make bold with your obstreperous aid,
Conceive me,--for your fee, sir. In mean time,
You that have so much law, I know have the conscience,
Not to be covetous of what is mine.
Good sir, I thank you for my plate; 'twill help
To set up a young man. Good faith, you look
As you were costive; best go home and purge, sir.
[EXIT VOLTORE.]
VOLP [COMES FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]:
Bid him eat lettuce well.
My witty mischief,
Let me embrace thee. O that I could now
Transform thee to a Venus!--Mosca, go,
Straight take my habit of clarissimo,
And walk the streets; be seen, torment them more:
We must pursue, as well as plot. Who would
Have lost this feast?
MOS: I doubt it will lose them.
VOLP: O, my recovery shall recover all.
That I could now but think on some disguise
To meet them in, and ask them questions:
How I would vex them still at every turn!
MOS: Sir, I can fit you.
VOLP: Canst thou?
MOS: Yes, I know
One o' the commandadori, sir, so like you;
Him will I straight make drunk, and bring you his habit.
VOLP: A rare disguise, and answering thy brain!
O, I will be a sharp disease unto them.
MOS: Sir, you must look for curses--
VOLP: Till they burst;
The Fox fares ever best when he is curst.
[EXEUNT.]