ST. MARK'S PLACE; A RETIRED CORNER BEFORE CORVINO'S HOUSE.ENTER SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE, AND PEREGRINE.SIR P: 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 desireOf seeing countries, shifting a religion,Nor any disaffection to the stateWhere I was bred, and unto which I oweMy dearest plots, hath brought me out; much less,That idle, antique, stale, gray-headed projectOf knowing men's minds, and manners, with Ulysses!But a peculiar humour of my wife'sLaid for this height of Venice, to observe,To quote, to learn the language, and so forth—I hope you travel, sir, with license?PER: Yes.SIR P: I dare the safelier converse—How long, sir,Since you left England?PER: Seven weeks.SIR P: So lately!You have not been with my lord ambassador?PER: Not yet, sir.SIR P: Pray you, what news, sir, vents our climate?I heard last night a most strange thing reportedBy some of my lord's followers, and I longTo hear how 'twill be seconded.PER: What was't, sir?SIR P: Marry, sir, of a raven that should buildIn a ship royal of the king's.PER [ASIDE.]: This fellow,Does he gull me, trow? or is gull'd?—Your name, sir.SIR P: My name is Politick Would-be.PER [ASIDE.]: O, that speaks him.—A knight, sir?SIR P: A poor knight, sir.PER: Your ladyLies here in Venice, for intelligenceOf tires, and fashions, and behaviour,Among the courtezans? the fine lady Would-be?SIR P: Yes, sir; the spider and the bee, ofttimes,Suck from one flower.PER: Good Sir Politick,I cry you mercy; I have heard much of you:'Tis true, sir, of your raven.SIR P: On your knowledge?PER: Yes, and your lion's whelping, in the Tower.SIR P: Another whelp!PER: Another, sir.SIR P: Now heaven!What prodigies be these? The fires at Berwick!And the new star! these things concurring, strange,And full of omen! Saw you those meteors?PER: I did, sir.SIR P: Fearful! Pray you, sir, confirm me,Were there three porpoises seen above the bridge,As they give out?PER: Six, and a sturgeon, sir.SIR P: I am astonish'd.PER: Nay, sir, be not so;I'll tell you a greater prodigy than these.SIR P: 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 subversionOf the Stode fleet.SIR P: 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;And they do lack a tavern fool extremely.SIR P: Is Mass Stone dead?PER: He's dead sir; why, I hopeYou thought him not immortal?[ASIDE.]—O, this knight,Were he well known, would be a precious thingTo fit our English stage: he that should writeBut such a fellow, should be thought to feignExtremely, if not maliciously.SIR P: Stone dead!PER: Dead.—Lord! how deeply sir, you apprehend it?He was no kinsman to you?SIR P: That I know of.Well! that same fellow was an unknown fool.PER: And yet you knew him, it seems?SIR P: I did so. Sir,I knew him one of the most dangerous headsLiving within the state, and so I held him.PER: Indeed, sir?SIR P: While he lived, in action.He has received weekly intelligence,Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries,For all parts of the world, in cabbages;And those dispensed again to ambassadors,In oranges, musk-melons, apricocks,Lemons, pome-citrons, and such-like: sometimesIn Colchester oysters, and your Selsey cockles.PER: You make me wonder.SIR P: Sir, upon my knowledge.Nay, I've observed him, at your public ordinary,Take his advertisement from a travellerA conceal'd statesman, in a trencher of meat;And instantly, before the meal was done,Convey an answer in a tooth-pick.PER: Strange!How could this be, sir?SIR P: Why, the meat was cutSo like his character, and so laid, as heMust easily read the cipher.PER: I have heard,He could not read, sir.SIR P: So 'twas given out,In policy, by those that did employ him:But he could read, and had your languages,And to't, as sound a noddle—PER: I have heard, sir,That your baboons were spies, and that they wereA kind of subtle nation near to China:SIR P: Ay, ay, your Mamuluchi. Faith, they hadTheir hand in a French plot or two; but theyWere so extremely given to women, asThey made discovery of all: yet IHad my advices here, on Wednesday last.From one of their own coat, they were return'd,Made their relations, as the fashion is,And now stand fair for fresh employment.PER: 'Heart![ASIDE.]This sir Pol will be ignorant of nothing.—It seems, sir, you know all?SIR P: Not all sir, butI have some general notions. I do loveTo note and to observe: though I live out,Free from the active torrent, yet I'd markThe currents and the passages of things,For mine own private use; and know the ebbs,And flows of state.PER: Believe it, sir, I holdMyself in no small tie unto my fortunes,For casting me thus luckily upon you,Whose knowledge, if your bounty equal it,May do me great assistance, in instructionFor my behaviour, and my bearing, whichIs yet so rude and raw.SIR P: Why, came you forthEmpty of rules, for travel?PER: Faith, I hadSome common ones, from out that vulgar grammar,Which he that cried Italian to me, taught me.SIR P: Why this it is, that spoils all our brave bloods,Trusting our hopeful gentry unto pedants,Fellows of outside, and mere bark. You seemTo be a gentleman, of ingenuous race:—I not profess it, but my fate hath beenTo be, where I have been consulted with,In this high kind, touching some great men's sons,Persons of blood, and honour.—[ENTER MOSCA AND NANO DISGUISED, FOLLOWED BY PERSONS WITHMATERIALS FOR ERECTING A STAGE.]PER: Who be these, sir?MOS: Under that window, there 't must be. The same.SIR P: Fellows, to mount a bank. Did your instructorIn the dear tongues, never discourse to youOf the Italian mountebanks?PER: Yes, sir.SIR P: Why,Here shall you see one.PER: They are quacksalvers;Fellows, that live by venting oils and drugs.SIR P: Was that the character he gave you of them?PER: As I remember.SIR P: Pity his ignorance.They are the only knowing men of Europe!Great general scholars, excellent physicians,Most admired statesmen, profest favourites,And cabinet counsellors to the greatest princes;The only languaged men of all the world!PER: And, I have heard, they are most lewd impostors;Made all of terms and shreds; no less beliersOf great men's favours, than their own vile med'cines;Which they will utter upon monstrous oaths:Selling that drug for two-pence, ere they part,Which they have valued at twelve crowns before.SIR P: Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence.Yourself shall judge.—Who is it mounts, my friends?MOS: Scoto of Mantua, sir.SIR P: Is't he? Nay, thenI'll proudly promise, sir, you shall beholdAnother man than has been phant'sied to you.I wonder yet, that he should mount his bank,Here in this nook, that has been wont t'appearIn face of the Piazza!—Here, he comes.[ENTER VOLPONE, DISGUISED AS A MOUNTEBANK DOCTOR, ANDFOLLOWED BY A CROWD OF PEOPLE.]VOLP [TO NANO.]: Mount zany.MOB: Follow, follow, follow, follow!SIR P: See how the people follow him! he's a manMay write ten thousand crowns in bank here. Note,[VOLPONE MOUNTS THE STAGE.]Mark but his gesture:—I do use to observeThe state he keeps in getting up.PER: 'Tis worth it, sir.VOLP: Most noble gentlemen, and my worthy patrons! It may seemstrange, that I, your Scoto Mantuano, who was ever wont to fixmy bank in face of the public Piazza, near the shelter of thePortico to the Procuratia, should now, after eight months'absence from this illustrious city of Venice, humbly retiremyself into an obscure nook of the Piazza.SIR P: Did not I now object the same?PER: Peace, sir.VOLP: Let me tell you: I am not, as your Lombard proverb saith,cold on my feet; or content to part with my commodities at acheaper rate, than I accustomed: look not for it. Nor that thecalumnious reports of that impudent detractor, and shame to ourprofession, (Alessandro Buttone, I mean,) who gave out, inpublic, I was condemn'd a sforzato to the galleys, forpoisoning the cardinal Bembo's—cook, hath at all attached,much less dejected me. No, no, worthy gentlemen; to tell youtrue, I cannot endure to see the rabble of these groundciarlitani, that spread their cloaks on the pavement, as ifthey meant to do feats of activity, and then come in lamely,with their mouldy tales out of Boccacio, like stale Tabarine,the fabulist: some of them discoursing their travels, and oftheir tedious captivity in the Turks' galleys, when, indeed,were the truth known, they were the Christians' galleys, wherevery temperately they eat bread, and drunk water, as awholesome penance, enjoined them by their confessors, for basepilferies.SIR P: Note but his bearing, and contempt of these.VOLP: These turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousy-fartical rogues, withone poor groat's-worth of unprepared antimony, finely wrapt upin several scartoccios, are able, very well, to kill theirtwenty a week, and play; yet, these meagre, starved spirits,who have half stopt the organs of their minds with earthyoppilations, want not their favourers among your shrivell'dsallad-eating artizans, who are overjoyed that they may havetheir half-pe'rth of physic; though it purge them into anotherworld, it makes no matter.SIR P: Excellent! have you heard better language, sir?VOLP: Well, let them go. And, gentlemen, honourable gentlemen,know, that for this time, our bank, being thus removed from theclamours of the canaglia, shall be the scene of pleasure anddelight; for I have nothing to sell, little or nothing to sell.SIR P: I told you, sir, his end.PER: You did so, sir.VOLP: I protest, I, and my six servants, are not able to makeof this precious liquor, so fast as it is fetch'd away from mylodging by gentlemen of your city; strangers of the Terra-firma;worshipful merchants; ay, and senators too: who, ever since myarrival, have detained me to their uses, by their splendidousliberalities. And worthily; for, what avails your rich man tohave his magazines stuft with moscadelli, or of the purestgrape, when his physicians prescribe him, on pain of death,to drink nothing but water cocted with aniseeds? O health!health! the blessing of the rich, the riches of the poor! whocan buy thee at too dear a rate, since there is no enjoyingthis world without thee? Be not then so sparing of your purses,honourable gentlemen, as to abridge the natural course of life—PER: You see his end.SIR P: Ay, is't not good?VOLP: For, when a humid flux, or catarrh, by the mutability ofair, falls from your head into an arm or shoulder, or any otherpart; take you a ducat, or your chequin of gold, and apply tothe place affected: see what good effect it can work. No, no,'tis this blessed unguento, this rare extraction, that hathonly power to disperse all malignant humours, that proceedeither of hot, cold, moist, or windy causes—PER: I would he had put in dry too.SIR P: 'Pray you, observe.VOLP: To fortify the most indigest and crude stomach, ay, wereit of one, that, through extreme weakness, vomited blood,applying only a warm napkin to the place, after the unctionand fricace;—for the vertigine in the head, putting but a dropinto your nostrils, likewise behind the ears; a most sovereignand approved remedy. The mal caduco, cramps, convulsions,paralysies, epilepsies, tremor-cordia, retired nerves, illvapours of the spleen, stopping of the liver, the stone, thestrangury, hernia ventosa, iliaca passio; stops a disenteriaimmediately; easeth the torsion of the small guts: and curesmelancholia hypocondriaca, being taken and applied according tomy printed receipt.[POINTING TO HIS BILL AND HIS VIAL.]For, this is the physician, this the medicine; this counsels,this cures; this gives the direction, this works the effect;and, in sum, both together may be termed an abstract of thetheorick and practick in the Aesculapian art. 'Twill cost youeight crowns. And,—Zan Fritada, prithee sing a verse extemporein honour of it.SIR P: How do you like him, sir?PER: Most strangely, I!SIR P: Is not his language rare?PER: But alchemy,I never heard the like: or Broughton's books.NANO [SINGS.]: Had old Hippocrates, or Galen,That to their books put med'cines all in,But known this secret, they had never(Of which they will be guilty ever)Been murderers of so much paper,Or wasted many a hurtless taper;No Indian drug had e'er been famed,Tabacco, sassafras not named;Ne yet, of guacum one small stick, sir,Nor Raymund Lully's great elixir.Ne had been known the Danish Gonswart,Or Paracelsus, with his long-sword.PER: All this, yet, will not do, eight crowns is high.VOLP: No more.—Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse to youthe miraculous effects of this my oil, surnamed Oglio del Scoto;with the countless catalogue of those I have cured of theaforesaid, and many more diseases; the pattents and privileges ofall the princes and commonwealths of Christendom; or but thedepositions of those that appeared on my part, before the signioryof the Sanita and most learned College of Physicians; where I wasauthorised, upon notice taken of the admirable virtues of mymedicaments, and mine own excellency in matter of rare and unknownsecrets, not only to disperse them publicly in this famous city,but in all the territories, that happily joy under the governmentof the most pious and magnificent states of Italy. But may someother gallant fellow say, O, there be divers that make professionto have as good, and as experimented receipts as yours: indeed,very many have assayed, like apes, in imitation of that, which isreally and essentially in me, to make of this oil; bestowed greatcost in furnaces, stills, alembecks, continual fires, andpreparation of the ingredients, (as indeed there goes to it sixhundred several simples, besides some quantity of human fat, forthe conglutination, which we buy of the anatomists,) but, whenthese practitioners come to the last decoction, blow, blow, puff,puff, and all flies in fumo: ha, ha, ha! Poor wretches! I ratherpity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time andmoney; for these may be recovered by industry: but to be a foolborn, is a disease incurable.For myself, I always from my youth have endeavoured to get therarest secrets, and book them, either in exchange, or for money;I spared nor cost nor labour, where any thing was worthy to belearned. And gentlemen, honourable gentlemen, I will undertake,by virtue of chemical art, out of the honourable hat that coversyour head, to extract the four elements; that is to say, thefire, air, water, and earth, and return you your felt withoutburn or stain. For, whilst others have been at the Balloo, Ihave been at my book; and am now past the craggy paths of study,and come to the flowery plains of honour and reputation.SIR P: I do assure you, sir, that is his aim.VOLP: But, to our price—PER: And that withal, sir Pol.VOLP: You all know, honourable gentlemen, I never valued thisampulla, or vial, at less than eight crowns, but for this time,I am content, to be deprived of it for six; six crowns is theprice; and less, in courtesy I know you cannot offer me; take it,or leave it, howsoever, both it and I am at your service. I askyou not as the value of the thing, for then I should demand ofyou a thousand crowns, so the cardinals Montalto, Fernese, thegreat Duke of Tuscany, my gossip, with divers other princes, havegiven me; but I despise money. Only to shew my affection to you,honourable gentlemen, and your illustrious State here, I haveneglected the messages of these princes, mine own offices,framed my journey hither, only to present you with the fruits ofmy travels.—Tune your voices once more to the touch of yourinstruments, and give the honourable assembly some delightfulrecreation.PER: What monstrous and most painful circumstanceIs here, to get some three or four gazettes,Some three-pence in the whole! for that 'twill come to.NANO [SINGS.]: You that would last long, list to my song,Make no more coil, but buy of this oil.Would you be ever fair and young?Stout of teeth, and strong of tongue?Tart of palate? quick of ear?Sharp of sight? of nostril clear?Moist of hand? and light of foot?Or, I will come nearer to't,Would you live free from all diseases?Do the act your mistress pleases;Yet fright all aches from your bones?Here's a med'cine, for the nones.VOLP: Well, I am in a humour at this time to make a present ofthe small quantity my coffer contains; to the rich, incourtesy, and to the poor for God's sake. Wherefore now mark:I ask'd you six crowns, and six crowns, at other times, youhave paid me; you shall not give me six crowns, nor five, norfour, nor three, nor two, nor one; nor half a ducat; no, nor amoccinigo. Sixpence it will cost you, or six hundred pound—expect no lower price, for, by the banner of my front, I willnot bate a bagatine, that I will have, only, a pledge of yourloves, to carry something from amongst you, to shew I am notcontemn'd by you. Therefore, now, toss your handkerchiefs,cheerfully, cheerfully; and be advertised, that the firstheroic spirit that deignes to grace me with a handkerchief, Iwill give it a little remembrance of something, beside, shallplease it better, than if I had presented it with a doublepistolet.PER: Will you be that heroic spark, sir Pol?[CELIA AT A WINDOW ABOVE, THROWS DOWN HER HANDKERCHIEF.]O see! the window has prevented you.VOLP: Lady, I kiss your bounty; and for this timely grace youhave done your poor Scoto of Mantua, I will return you, over andabove my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature,shall make you for ever enamour'd on that minute, wherein youreye first descended on so mean, yet not altogether to bedespised, an object. Here is a powder conceal'd in this paper,of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumeswere but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word;so short is this pilgrimage of man (which some call life) to theexpressing of it. Would I reflect on the price? why, the wholeworld is but as an empire, that empire as a province, thatprovince as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchaseof it. I will only tell you; it is the powder that made Venus agoddess (given her by Apollo,) that kept her perpetually young,clear'd her wrinkles, firm'd her gums, fill'd her skin, colour'dher hair; from her deriv'd to Helen, and at the sack of Troyunfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happilyrecovered, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia,who sent a moiety of it to the court of France, (but muchsophisticated,) wherewith the ladies there, now, colour theirhair. The rest, at this present, remains with me; extracted to aquintessence: so that, whereever it but touches, in youth itperpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats yourteeth, did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makesthem white as ivory, that were black, as—[ENTER CORVINO.]COR: Spight o' the devil, and my shame! come down here;Come down;—No house but mine to make your scene?Signior Flaminio, will you down, sir? down?What, is my wife your Franciscina, sir?No windows on the whole Piazza, here,To make your properties, but mine? but mine?[BEATS AWAY VOLPONE, NANO, ETC.]Heart! ere to-morrow, I shall be new-christen'd,And call'd the Pantalone di Besogniosi,About the town.PER: What should this mean, sir Pol?SIR P: Some trick of state, believe it. I will home.PER: It may be some design on you:SIR P: I know not.I'll stand upon my guard.PER: It is your best, sir.SIR P: This three weeks, all my advices, all my letters,They have been intercepted.PER: Indeed, sir!Best have a care.SIR P: Nay, so I will.PER: This knight,I may not lose him, for my mirth, till night.[EXEUNT.]SCENE 2.2.A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE.ENTER VOLPONE AND MOSCA.VOLP: O, I am wounded!MOS: Where, sir?VOLP: Not without;Those blows were nothing: I could bear them ever.But angry Cupid, bolting from her eyes,Hath shot himself into me like a flame;Where, now, he flings about his burning heat,As in a furnace an ambitious fire,Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me.I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca;My liver melts, and I, without the hopeOf some soft air, from her refreshing breath,Am but a heap of cinders.MOS: 'Las, good sir,Would you had never seen her!VOLP: Nay, would thouHad'st never told me of her!MOS: Sir 'tis true;I do confess I was unfortunate,And you unhappy: but I'm bound in conscience,No less than duty, to effect my bestTo your release of torment, and I will, sir.VOLP: Dear Mosca, shall I hope?MOS: Sir, more than dear,I will not bid you to dispair of aughtWithin a human compass.VOLP: O, there spokeMy better angel. Mosca, take my keys,Gold, plate, and jewels, all's at thy devotion;Employ them how thou wilt; nay, coin me too:So thou, in this, but crown my longings, Mosca.MOS: Use but your patience.VOLP: So I have.MOS: I doubt notTo bring success to your desires.VOLP: Nay, then,I not repent me of my late disguise.MOS: If you can horn him, sir, you need not.VOLP: True:Besides, I never meant him for my heir.—Is not the colour of my beard and eyebrows,To make me known?MOS: No jot.VOLP: I did it well.MOS: So well, would I could follow you in mine,With half the happiness![ASIDE.]—and yet I wouldEscape your Epilogue.VOLP: But were they gull'dWith a belief that I was Scoto?MOS: Sir,Scoto himself could hardly have distinguish'd!I have not time to flatter you now; we'll part;And as I prosper, so applaud my art.[EXEUNT.]
SCENE 2.3.A ROOM IN CORVINO'S HOUSE.ENTER CORVINO, WITH HIS SWORD IN HIS HAND, DRAGGINGIN CELIA.CORV: Death of mine honour, with the city's fool!A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank!And at a public window! where, whilst he,With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces,To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears,A crew of old, unmarried, noted letchers,Stood leering up like satyrs; and you smileMost graciously, and fan your favours forth,To give your hot spectators satisfaction!What; was your mountebank their call? their whistle?Or were you enamour'd on his copper rings,His saffron jewel, with the toad-stone in't,Or his embroider'd suit, with the cope-stitch,Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather?Or his starch'd beard? Well; you shall have him, yes!He shall come home, and minister unto youThe fricace for the mother. Or, let me see,I think you'd rather mount; would you not mount?Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truly, you may:And so you may be seen, down to the foot.Get you a cittern, lady Vanity,And be a dealer with the virtuous man;Make one: I'll but protest myself a cuckold,And save your dowry. I'm a Dutchman, I!For, if you thought me an Italian,You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you whore!Thou'dst tremble, to imagine, that the murderOf father, mother, brother, all thy race,Should follow, as the subject of my justice.CEL: Good sir, have pacience.CORV: What couldst thou proposeLess to thyself, than in this heat of wrathAnd stung with my dishonour, I should strikeThis steel into thee, with as many stabs,As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes?CEL: Alas, sir, be appeas'd! I could not thinkMy being at the window should more nowMove your impatience, than at other times.CORV: No! not to seek and entertain a parleyWith a known knave, before a multitude!You were an actor with your handkerchief;Which he most sweetly kist in the receipt,And might, no doubt, return it with a letter,And point the place where you might meet: your sister's,Your mother's, or your aunt's might serve the turn.CEL: Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses,Or ever stir abroad, but to the church?And that so seldom—CORV: Well, it shall be less;And thy restraint before was liberty,To what I now decree: and therefore mark me.First, I will have this bawdy light damm'd up;And till't be done, some two or three yards off,I'll chalk a line: o'er which if thou but chanceTo set thy desperate foot; more hell, more horrorMore wild remorseless rage shall seize on thee,Than on a conjurer, that had heedless leftHis circle's safety ere his devil was laid.Then here's a lock which I will hang upon thee;And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards;Thy lodging shall be backwards; thy walks backwards;Thy prospect, all be backwards; and no pleasure,That thou shalt know but backwards: nay, since you forceMy honest nature, know, it is your own,Being too open, makes me use you thus:Since you will not contain your subtle nostrilsIn a sweet room, but they must snuff the airOf rank and sweaty passengers.[KNOCKING WITHIN.]—One knocks.Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life;Nor look toward the window: if thou dost—Nay, stay, hear this—let me not prosper, whore,But I will make thee an anatomy,Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lectureUpon thee to the city, and in public.Away![EXIT CELIA.][ENTER SERVANT.]Who's there?SERV: 'Tis signior Mosca, sir.CORV: Let him come in.[EXIT SERVANT.]His master's dead: There's yetSome good to help the bad.—[ENTER MOSCA.]My Mosca, welcome!I guess your news.MOS: I fear you cannot, sir.CORV: Is't not his death?MOS: Rather the contrary.CORV: Not his recovery?MOS: Yes, sir,CORV: I am curs'd,I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me.How? how? how? how?MOS: Why, sir, with Scoto's oil;Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it,Whilst I was busy in an inner room—CORV: Death! that damn'd mountebank; but for the lawNow, I could kill the rascal: it cannot be,His oil should have that virtue. Have not IKnown him a common rogue, come fidling inTo the osteria, with a tumbling whore,And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been gladOf a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't?It cannot be. All his ingredientsAre a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow,Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars,A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle:I know them to a dram.MOS: I know not, sir,But some on't, there, they pour'd into his ears,Some in his nostrils, and recover'd him;Applying but the fricace.CORV: Pox o' that fricace.MOS: And since, to seem the more officiousAnd flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had,At extreme fees, the college of physiciansConsulting on him, how they might restore him;Where one would have a cataplasm of spices,Another a flay'd ape clapp'd to his breast,A third would have it a dog, a fourth an oil,With wild cats' skins: at last, they all resolvedThat, to preserve him, was no other means,But some young woman must be straight sought out,Lusty, and full of juice, to sleep by him;And to this service, most unhappily,And most unwillingly, am I now employ'd,Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with,For your advice, since it concerns you most;Because, I would not do that thing might crossYour ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, sir:Yet, if I do it not, they may delateMy slackness to my patron, work me outOf his opinion; and there all your hopes,Ventures, or whatsoever, are all frustrate!I do but tell you, sir. Besides, they are allNow striving, who shall first present him; therefore—I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat;Prevent them if you can.CORV: Death to my hopes,This is my villainous fortune! Best to hireSome common courtezan.MOS: Ay, I thought on that, sir;But they are all so subtle, full of art—And age again doting and flexible,So as—I cannot tell—we may, perchance,Light on a quean may cheat us all.CORV: 'Tis true.MOS: No, no: it must be one that has no tricks, sir,Some simple thing, a creature made unto it;Some wench you may command. Have you no kinswoman?Odso—Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir.One o' the doctors offer'd there his daughter.CORV: How!MOS: Yes, signior Lupo, the physician.CORV: His daughter!MOS: And a virgin, sir. Why? alas,He knows the state of's body, what it is;That nought can warm his blood sir, but a fever;Nor any incantation raise his spirit:A long forgetfulness hath seized that part.Besides sir, who shall know it? some one or two—CORV: I prithee give me leave.[WALKS ASIDE.]If any manBut I had had this luck—The thing in't self,I know, is nothing—Wherefore should not IAs well command my blood and my affections,As this dull doctor? In the point of honour,The cases are all one of wife and daughter.MOS [ASIDE.]: I hear him coming.CORV: She shall do't: 'tis done.Slight! if this doctor, who is not engaged,Unless 't be for his counsel, which is nothing,Offer his daughter, what should I, that amSo deeply in? I will prevent him: Wretch!Covetous wretch!—Mosca, I have determined.MOS: How, sir?CORV: We'll make all sure. The party you wot ofShall be mine own wife, Mosca.MOS: Sir, the thing,But that I would not seem to counsel you,I should have motion'd to you, at the first:And make your count, you have cut all their throats.Why! 'tis directly taking a possession!And in his next fit, we may let him go.'Tis but to pull the pillow from his head,And he is throttled: it had been done before,But for your scrupulous doubts.CORV: Ay, a plague on't,My conscience fools my wit! Well, I'll be brief,And so be thou, lest they should be before us:Go home, prepare him, tell him with what zealAnd willingness I do it; swear it wasOn the first hearing, as thou mayst do, truly,Mine own free motion.MOS: Sir, I warrant you,I'll so possess him with it, that the restOf his starv'd clients shall be banish'd all;And only you received. But come not, sir,Until I send, for I have something elseTo ripen for your good, you must not know't.CORV: But do not you forget to send now.MOS: Fear not.[EXIT.]CORV: Where are you, wife? my Celia? wife?[RE-ENTER CELIA.]—What, blubbering?Come, dry those tears. I think thou thought'st me in earnest;Ha! by this light I talk'd so but to try thee:Methinks the lightness of the occasionShould have confirm'd thee. Come, I am not jealous.CEL: No!CORV: Faith I am not I, nor never was;It is a poor unprofitable humour.Do not I know, if women have a will,They'll do 'gainst all the watches of the world,And that the feircest spies are tamed with gold?Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't;And see I'll give thee cause too, to believe it.Come kiss me. Go, and make thee ready, straight,In all thy best attire, thy choicest jewels,Put them all on, and, with them, thy best looks:We are invited to a solemn feast,At old Volpone's, where it shall appearHow far I am free from jealousy or fear.[exeunt.]
A STREET.ENTER MOSCA.MOS: I fear, I shall begin to grow in loveWith my dear self, and my most prosperous parts,They do so spring and burgeon; I can feelA whimsy in my blood: I know not how,Success hath made me wanton. I could skipOut of my skin, now, like a subtle snake,I am so limber. O! your parasiteIs a most precious thing, dropt from above,Not bred 'mongst clods, and clodpoles, here on earth.I muse, the mystery was not made a science,It is so liberally profest! almostAll the wise world is little else, in nature,But parasites, or sub-parasites.—And yet,I mean not those that have your bare town-art,To know who's fit to feed them; have no house,No family, no care, and therefore mouldTales for men's ears, to bait that sense; or getKitchen-invention, and some stale receiptsTo please the belly, and the groin; nor those,With their court dog-tricks, that can fawn and fleer,Make their revenue out of legs and faces,Echo my lord, and lick away a moth:But your fine elegant rascal, that can rise,And stoop, almost together, like an arrow;Shoot through the air as nimbly as a star;Turn short as doth a swallow; and be here,And there, and here, and yonder, all at once;Present to any humour, all occasion;And change a visor, swifter than a thought!This is the creature had the art born with him;Toils not to learn it, but doth practise itOut of most excellent nature: and such sparksAre the true parasites, others but their zanis.[ENTER BONARIO.]MOS: Who's this? Bonario, old Corbaccio's son?The person I was bound to seek.—Fair sir,You are happily met.BON: That cannot be by thee.MOS: Why, sir?BON: Nay, pray thee know thy way, and leave me:I would be loth to interchange discourseWith such a mate as thou artMOS: Courteous sir,Scorn not my poverty.BON: Not I, by heaven;But thou shalt give me leave to hate thy baseness.MOS: Baseness!BON: Ay; answer me, is not thy slothSufficient argument? thy flattery?Thy means of feeding?MOS: Heaven be good to me!These imputations are too common, sir,And easily stuck on virtue when she's poor.You are unequal to me, and however,Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are notThat, ere you know me, thus proceed in censure:St. Mark bear witness 'gainst you, 'tis inhuman.[WEEPS.]BON [ASIDE.]: What! does he weep? the sign is soft and good;I do repent me that I was so harsh.MOS: 'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessity,I am enforced to eat my careful breadWith too much obsequy; 'tis true, beside,That I am fain to spin mine own poor raimentOut of my mere observance, being not bornTo a free fortune: but that I have doneBase offices, in rending friends asunder,Dividing families, betraying counsels,Whispering false lies, or mining men with praises,Train'd their credulity with perjuries,Corrupted chastity, or am in loveWith mine own tender ease, but would not ratherProve the most rugged, and laborious course,That might redeem my present estimation,Let me here perish, in all hope of goodness.BON [ASIDE.]: This cannot be a personated passion.—I was to blame, so to mistake thy nature;Prithee, forgive me: and speak out thy business.MOS: Sir, it concerns you; and though I may seem,At first to make a main offence in manners,And in my gratitude unto my master;Yet, for the pure love, which I bear all right,And hatred of the wrong, I must reveal it.This very hour your father is in purposeTo disinherit you—BON: How!MOS: And thrust you forth,As a mere stranger to his blood; 'tis true, sir:The work no way engageth me, but, asI claim an interest in the general stateOf goodness and true virtue, which I hearTo abound in you: and, for which mere respect,Without a second aim, sir, I have done it.BON: This tale hath lost thee much of the late trustThou hadst with me; it is impossible:I know not how to lend it any thought,My father should be so unnatural.MOS: It is a confidence that well becomesYour piety; and form'd, no doubt, it isFrom your own simple innocence: which makesYour wrong more monstrous, and abhorr'd. But, sir,I now will tell you more. This very minute,It is, or will be doing; and, if youShall be but pleas'd to go with me, I'll bring you,I dare not say where you shall see, but whereYour ear shall be a witness of the deed;Hear yourself written bastard; and profestThe common issue of the earth.BON: I am amazed!MOS: Sir, if I do it not, draw your just sword,And score your vengeance on my front and face;Mark me your villain: you have too much wrong,And I do suffer for you, sir. My heartWeeps blood in anguish—BON: Lead; I follow thee.[EXEUNT.]SCENE 3.2.A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE.ENTER VOLPONE.VOLP: Mosca stays long, methinks. Bring forth your sports,And help to make the wretched time more sweet.[ENTER NANO, ANDROGYNO, AND CASTRONE.]NAN: Dwarf, fool, and eunuch, well met here we be.A question it were now, whether of us three,Being all the known delicates of a rich man,In pleasing him, claim the precedency can?CAS: I claim for myself.AND: And so doth the fool.NAN: 'Tis foolish indeed: let me set you both to school.First for your dwarf, he's little and witty,And every thing, as it is little, is pretty;Else why do men say to a creature of my shape,So soon as they see him, It's a pretty little ape?And why a pretty ape, but for pleasing imitationOf greater men's actions, in a ridiculous fashion?Beside, this feat body of mine doth not craveHalf the meat, drink, and cloth, one of your bulks will have.Admit your fool's face be the mother of laughter,Yet, for his brain, it must always come after:And though that do feed him, 'tis a pitiful case,His body is beholding to such a bad face.[KNOCKING WITHIN.]VOLP: Who's there? my couch; away! look! Nano, see:[EXE. AND. AND CAS.]Give me my caps, first—go, enquire.[EXIT NANO.]—Now, CupidSend it be Mosca, and with fair return!NAN [WITHIN.]: It is the beauteous madam—VOLP: Would-be?—is it?NAN: The same.VOLP: Now torment on me! Squire her in;For she will enter, or dwell here for ever:Nay, quickly.[RETIRES TO HIS COUCH.]—That my fit were past! I fearA second hell too, that my lothing thisWill quite expel my appetite to the other:Would she were taking now her tedious leave.Lord, how it threats me what I am to suffer![RE-ENTER NANO, WITH LADY POLITICK WOULD-BE.]LADY P: I thank you, good sir. 'Pray you signifyUnto your patron, I am here.—This bandShews not my neck enough.—I trouble you, sir;Let me request you, bid one of my womenCome hither to me.—In good faith, I, am drestMost favorably, to-day! It is no matter:'Tis well enough.—[ENTER 1 WAITING-WOMAN.]Look, see, these petulant things,How they have done this!VOLP [ASIDE.]: I do feel the feverEntering in at mine ears; O, for a charm,To fright it hence.LADY P: Come nearer: Is this curlIn his right place, or this? Why is this higherThen all the rest? You have not wash'd your eyes, yet!Or do they not stand even in your head?Where is your fellow? call her.[EXIT 1 WOMAN.]NAN: Now, St. MarkDeliver us! anon, she will beat her women,Because her nose is red.[RE-ENTER 1 WITH 2 WOMAN.]LADY P: I pray you, viewThis tire, forsooth; are all things apt, or no?1 WOM: One hair a little, here, sticks out, forsooth.LADY P: Does't so, forsooth? and where was your dear sight,When it did so, forsooth! What now! bird-eyed?And you too? 'Pray you, both approach and mend it.Now, by that light, I muse you are not ashamed!I, that have preach'd these things so oft unto you,Read you the principles, argued all the grounds,Disputed every fitness, every grace,Call'd you to counsel of so frequent dressings—NAN [ASIDE.]: More carefully than of your fame or honour.LADY P: Made you acquainted, what an ample dowryThe knowledge of these things would be unto you,Able, alone, to get you noble husbandsAt your return: and you thus to neglect it!Besides you seeing what a curious nationThe Italians are, what will they say of me?"The English lady cannot dress herself."Here's a fine imputation to our country:Well, go your ways, and stay, in the next room.This fucus was too course too, it's no matter.—Good-sir, you will give them entertainment?[EXEUNT NANO AND WAITING-WOMEN.]VOLP: The storm comes toward me.LADY P [GOES TO THE COUCH.]: How does my Volpone?VOLP: Troubled with noise, I cannot sleep; I dreamtThat a strange fury enter'd, now, my house,And, with the dreadful tempest of her breath,Did cleave my roof asunder.LADY P: Believe me, and IHad the most fearful dream, could I remember't—VOLP [ASIDE.]: Out on my fate! I have given her the occasionHow to torment me: she will tell me hers.LADY P: Me thought, the golden mediocrity,Polite and delicate—VOLP: O, if you do love me,No more; I sweat, and suffer, at the mentionOf any dream: feel, how I tremble yet.LADY P: Alas, good soul! the passion of the heart.Seed-pearl were good now, boil'd with syrup of apples,Tincture of gold, and coral, citron-pills,Your elicampane root, myrobalanes—VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ah me, I have ta'en a grass-hopper by the wing!LADY P: Burnt silk, and amber: you have muscadelGood in the house—VOLP: You will not drink, and part?LADY P: No, fear not that. I doubt, we shall not getSome English saffron, half a dram would serve;Your sixteen cloves, a little musk, dried mints,Bugloss, and barley-meal—VOLP [ASIDE.]: She's in again!Before I fain'd diseases, now I have one.LADY P: And these applied with a right scarlet cloth.VOLP [ASIDE.]: Another flood of words! a very torrent!LADY P: Shall I, sir, make you a poultice?VOLP: No, no, no;I am very well: you need prescribe no more.LADY P: I have a little studied physic; but now,I'm all for music, save, in the forenoons,An hour or two for painting. I would haveA lady, indeed, to have all, letters, and arts,Be able to discourse, to write, to paint,But principal, as Plato holds, your music,And, so does wise Pythagoras, I take it,Is your true rapture: when there is concentIn face, in voice, and clothes: and is, indeed,Our sex's chiefest ornament.VOLP: The poetAs old in time as Plato, and as knowing,Says that your highest female grace is silence.LADY P: Which of your poets? Petrarch, or Tasso, or Dante?Guarini? Ariosto? Aretine?Cieco di Hadria? I have read them all.VOLP [ASIDE.]: Is every thing a cause to my distruction?LADY P: I think I have two or three of them about me.VOLP [ASIDE.]: The sun, the sea will sooner both stand still,Then her eternal tongue; nothing can 'scape it.LADY P: Here's pastor Fido—VOLP [ASIDE.]: Profess obstinate silence,That's now my safest.LADY P: All our English writers,I mean such as are happy in the Italian,Will deign to steal out of this author, mainly:Almost as much, as from Montagnie;He has so modern and facile a vein,Fitting the time, and catching the court-ear!Your Petrarch is more passionate, yet he,In days of sonetting, trusted them with much:Dante is hard, and few can understand him.But, for a desperate wit, there's Aretine;Only, his pictures are a little obscene—You mark me not.VOLP: Alas, my mind is perturb'd.LADY P: Why, in such cases, we must cure ourselves,Make use of our philosophy—VOLP: Oh me!LADY P: And as we find our passions do rebel,Encounter them with reason, or divert them,By giving scope unto some other humourOf lesser danger: as, in politic bodies,There's nothing more doth overwhelm the judgment,And cloud the understanding, than too muchSettling and fixing, and, as 'twere, subsidingUpon one object. For the incorporatingOf these same outward things, into that part,Which we call mental, leaves some certain faecesThat stop the organs, and as Plato says,Assassinate our Knowledge.VOLP [ASIDE.]: Now, the spiritOf patience help me!LADY P: Come, in faith, I mustVisit you more a days; and make you well:Laugh and be lusty.VOLP [ASIDE.]: My good angel save me!LADY P: There was but one sole man in all the world,With whom I e'er could sympathise; and heWould lie you, often, three, four hours togetherTo hear me speak; and be sometimes so rapt,As he would answer me quite from the purpose,Like you, and you are like him, just. I'll discourse,An't be but only, sir, to bring you asleep,How we did spend our time and loves together,For some six years.VOLP: Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!LADY P: For we were coaetanei, and brought up—VOLP: Some power, some fate, some fortune rescue me![ENTER MOSCA.]MOS: God save you, madam!LADY P: Good sir.VOLP: Mosca? welcome,Welcome to my redemption.MOS: Why, sir?VOLP: Oh,Rid me of this my torture, quickly, there;My madam, with the everlasting voice:The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er madeLike noise, or were in that perpetual motion!The Cock-pit comes not near it. All my house,But now, steam'd like a bath with her thick breath.A lawyer could not have been heard; nor scarceAnother woman, such a hail of wordsShe has let fall. For hell's sake, rid her hence.MOS: Has she presented?VOLP: O, I do not care;I'll take her absence, upon any price,With any loss.MOS: Madam—LADY P: I have brought your patronA toy, a cap here, of mine own work.MOS: 'Tis well.I had forgot to tell you, I saw your knight,Where you would little think it.—LADY P: Where?MOS: Marry,Where yet, if you make haste, you may apprehend,Rowing upon the water in a gondole,With the most cunning courtezan of Venice.LADY P: Is't true?MOS: Pursue them, and believe your eyes;Leave me, to make your gift.[EXIT LADY P. HASTILY.]—I knew 'twould take:For, lightly, they, that use themselves most license,Are still most jealous.VOLP: Mosca, hearty thanks,For thy quick fiction, and delivery of me.Now to my hopes, what say'st thou?[RE-ENTER LADY P. WOULD-BE.]LADY P: But do you hear, sir?—VOLP: Again! I fear a paroxysm.LADY P: Which wayRow'd they together?MOS: Toward the Rialto.LADY P: I pray you lend me your dwarf.MOS: I pray you, take him.—[EXIT LADY P.]Your hopes, sir, are like happy blossoms, fair,And promise timely fruit, if you will stayBut the maturing; keep you at your couch,Corbaccio will arrive straight, with the Will;When he is gone, I'll tell you more.[EXIT.]VOLP: My blood,My spirits are return'd; I am alive:And like your wanton gamester, at primero,Whose thought had whisper'd to him, not go less,Methinks I lie, and draw—for an encounter.[THE SCENE CLOSES UPON VOLPONE.]SCENE 3.3THE PASSAGE LEADING TO VOLPONE'S CHAMBER.ENTER MOSCA AND BONARIO.MOS: Sir, here conceal'd,[SHEWS HIM A CLOSET.]you may here all. But, pray you,Have patience, sir;[KNOCKING WITHIN.]—the same's your father knocks:I am compell'd to leave you.[EXIT.]BON: Do so.—Yet,Cannot my thought imagine this a truth.[GOES INTO THE CLOSET.]SCENE 3.4.ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME.ENTER MOSCA AND CORVINO, CELIA FOLLOWING.MOS: Death on me! you are come too soon, what meant you?Did not I say, I would send?CORV: Yes, but I fear'dYou might forget it, and then they prevent us.MOS [ASIDE.]: Prevent! did e'er man haste so, for his horns?A courtier would not ply it so, for a place.—Well, now there's no helping it, stay here;I'll presently return.[EXIT.]CORV: Where are you, Celia?You know not wherefore I have brought you hither?CEL: Not well, except you told me.CORV: Now, I will:Hark hither.[EXEUNT.]SCENE 3.5.A CLOSET OPENING INTO A GALLERY.ENTER MOSCA AND BONARIO.MOS: Sir, your father hath sent word,It will be half an hour ere he come;And therefore, if you please to walk the whileInto that gallery—at the upper end,There are some books to entertain the time:And I'll take care no man shall come unto you, sir.BON: Yes, I will stay there.[ASIDE.]—I do doubt this fellow.[EXIT.]MOS [LOOKING AFTER HIM.]: There; he is far enough;he can hear nothing:And, for his father, I can keep him off.[EXIT.]SCENE 3.6.VOLPONE'S CHAMBER.—VOLPONE ON HIS COUCH.MOSCA SITTING BY HIM.ENTER CORVINO, FORCING IN CELIA.CORV: Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.It must be done. Nor would I move't, afore,Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,That might deny me.CEL: Sir, let me beseech you,Affect not these strange trials; if you doubtMy chastity, why, lock me up for ever:Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.CORV: Believe it, I have no such humour, I.All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad;Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourselfObedient, and a wife.CEL: O heaven!CORV: I say it,Do so.CEL: Was this the train?CORV: I've told you reasons;What the physicians have set down; how muchIt may concern me; what my engagements are;My means; and the necessity of those means,For my recovery: wherefore, if you beLoyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.CEL: Before your honour?CORV: Honour! tut, a breath:There's no such thing, in nature: a mere termInvented to awe fools. What is my goldThe worse, for touching, clothes for being look'd on?Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch,That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meatWith others' fingers; only knows to gape,When you do scald his gums; a voice; a shadow;And, what can this man hurt you?CEL [ASIDE.]: Lord! what spiritIs this hath enter'd him?CORV: And for your fame,That's such a jig; as if I would go tell it,Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it,But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow,Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself,(If you'll proclaim't, you may,) I know no other,Shall come to know it.CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing?Will they be blind or stupid?CORV: How!CEL: Good sir,Be jealous still, emulate them; and thinkWhat hate they burn with toward every sin.CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,I would not urge you. Should I offer thisTo some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan bloodThat had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints,Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth,And were professed critic in lechery;And I would look upon him, and applaud him,This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary,A pious work, mere charity for physic,And honest polity, to assure mine own.CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?VOLP: Thou art mine honour, Mosca, and my pride,My joy, my tickling, my delight! Go bring them.MOS [ADVANCING.]: Please you draw near, sir.CORV: Come on, what—You will not be rebellious? by that light—MOS: Sir,Signior Corvino, here, is come to see you.VOLP: Oh!MOS: And hearing of the consultation had,So lately, for your health, is come to offer,Or rather, sir, to prostitute—CORV: Thanks, sweet Mosca.MOS: Freely, unask'd, or unintreated—CORV: Well.MOS: As the true fervent instance of his love,His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty,Only of price in Venice—CORV: 'Tis well urged.MOS: To be your comfortress, and to preserve you.VOLP: Alas, I am past, already! Pray you, thank himFor his good care and promptness; but for that,'Tis a vain labour e'en to fight 'gainst heaven;Applying fire to stone—[COUGHING.] uh, uh, uh, uh!Making a dead leaf grow again. I takeHis wishes gently, though; and you may tell him,What I have done for him: marry, my state is hopeless.Will him to pray for me; and to use his fortuneWith reverence, when he comes to't.MOS: Do you hear, sir?Go to him with your wife.CORV: Heart of my father!Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come.Thou seest 'tis nothing, Celia. By this hand,I shall grow violent. Come, do't, I say.CEL: Sir, kill me, rather: I will take down poison,Eat burning coals, do any thing.—CORV: Be damn'd!Heart, I'll drag thee hence, home, by the hair;Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip upThy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose,Like a raw rotchet!—Do not tempt me; come,Yield, I am loth—Death! I will buy some slaveWhom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive;And at my window hang you forth: devisingSome monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters,Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis,And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast.Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I'll do it!CEL: Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.CORV: Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserved it:Think who it is intreats you. 'Prithee, sweet;—Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires,What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him.Or touch him, but, for my sake.—At my suit.—This once.—No! not! I shall remember this.Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?MOS: Nay, gentle lady, be advised.CORV: No, no.She has watch'd her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy,'Tis very scurvy: and you are—MOS: Nay, good, sir.CORV: An arrant Locust, by heaven, a locust!Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared,Expecting how thou'lt bid them flow—MOS: Nay, 'Pray you, sir!She will consider.CEL: Would my life would serveTo satisfy—CORV: S'death! if she would but speak to him,And save my reputation, it were somewhat;But spightfully to affect my utter ruin!MOS: Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands.Why i'faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her.If you were absent, she would be more coming;I know it: and dare undertake for her.What woman can before her husband? 'pray you,Let us depart, and leave her here.CORV: Sweet Celia,Thou may'st redeem all, yet; I'll say no more:If not, esteem yourself as lost,—Nay, stay there.[SHUTS THE DOOR, AND EXIT WITH MOSCA.]CEL: O God, and his good angels! whither, whither,Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease,Men dare put off your honours, and their own?Is that, which ever was a cause of life,Now placed beneath the basest circumstance,And modesty an exile made, for money?VOLP: Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds,[LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.]That never tasted the true heaven of love.Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee,Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain,He would have sold his part of ParadiseFor ready money, had he met a cope-man.Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived?Rather applaud thy beauty's miracle;'Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone,But sundry times raised me, in several shapes,And, but this morning, like a mountebank;To see thee at thy window: ay, beforeI would have left my practice, for thy love,In varying figures, I would have contendedWith the blue Proteus, or the horned flood.Now art thou welcome.CEL: Sir!VOLP: Nay, fly me not.Nor let thy false imaginationThat I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so:Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh,As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight,As when, in that so celebrated scene,At recitation of our comedy,For entertainment of the great Valois,I acted young Antinous; and attractedThe eyes and ears of all the ladies present,To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing.[SINGS.]Come, my Celia, let us prove,While we can, the sports of love,Time will not be ours for ever,He, at length, our good will sever;Spend not then his gifts in vain;Suns, that set, may rise again:But if once we loose this light,'Tis with us perpetual night.Why should we defer our joys?Fame and rumour are but toys.Cannot we delude the eyesOf a few poor household spies?Or his easier ears beguile,Thus remooved by our wile?—'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal:But the sweet thefts to reveal;To be taken, to be seen,These have crimes accounted been.CEL: Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strikeThis my offending face!VOLP: Why droops my Celia?Thou hast, in place of a base husband, foundA worthy lover: use thy fortune well,With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold,What thou art queen of; not in expectation,As I feed others: but possess'd, and crown'd.See, here, a rope of pearl; and each, more orientThan that the brave Egyptian queen caroused:Dissolve and drink them. See, a carbuncle,May put out both the eyes of our St Mark;A diamond, would have bought Lollia Paulina,When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels,That were the spoils of provinces; take these,And wear, and lose them: yet remains an ear-ringTo purchase them again, and this whole state.A gem but worth a private patrimony,Is nothing: we will eat such at a meal.The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales,The brains of peacocks, and of estriches,Shall be our food: and, could we get the phoenix,Though nature lost her kind, she were our dish.CEL: Good sir, these things might move a mind affectedWith such delights; but I, whose innocenceIs all I can think wealthy, or worth th' enjoying,And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it,Cannot be taken with these sensual baits:If you have conscience—VOLP: 'Tis the beggar's virtue,If thou hast wisdom, hear me, Celia.Thy baths shall be the juice of July-flowers,Spirit of roses, and of violets,The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breathGather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines.Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber;Which we will take, until my roof whirl roundWith the vertigo: and my dwarf shall dance,My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic.Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's tales,Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove,Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine:So, of the rest, till we have quite run through,And wearied all the fables of the gods.Then will I have thee in more modern forms,Attired like some sprightly dame of France,Brave Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty;Sometimes, unto the Persian sophy's wife;Or the grand signior's mistress; and, for change,To one of our most artful courtezans,Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian;And I will meet thee in as many shapes:Where we may so transfuse our wandering souls,Out at our lips, and score up sums of pleasures,[SINGS.]That the curious shall not knowHow to tell them as they flow;And the envious, when they findWhat there number is, be pined.CEL: If you have ears that will be pierc'd—or eyesThat can be open'd—a heart that may be touch'd—Or any part that yet sounds man about you—If you have touch of holy saints—or heaven—Do me the grace to let me 'scape—if not,Be bountiful and kill me. You do know,I am a creature, hither ill betray'd,By one, whose shame I would forget it were:If you will deign me neither of these graces,Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your lust,(It is a vice comes nearer manliness,)And punish that unhappy crime of nature,Which you miscall my beauty; flay my face,Or poison it with ointments, for seducingYour blood to this rebellion. Rub these hands,With what may cause an eating leprosy,E'en to my bones and marrow: any thing,That may disfavour me, save in my honour—And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay downA thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health;Report, and think you virtuous—VOLP: Think me cold,Frosen and impotent, and so report me?That I had Nestor's hernia, thou wouldst think.I do degenerate, and abuse my nation,To play with opportunity thus long;I should have done the act, and then have parley'd.Yield, or I'll force thee.[SEIZES HER.]CEL: O! just God!VOLP: In vain—BON [RUSHING IN]: Forbear, foul ravisher, libidinous swine!Free the forced lady, or thou diest, impostor.But that I'm loth to snatch thy punishmentOut of the hand of justice, thou shouldst, yet,Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance,Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.—Lady, let's quit the place, it is the denOf villany; fear nought, you have a guard:And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward.[EXEUNT BON. AND CEL.]VOLP: Fall on me, roof, and bury me in ruin!Become my grave, that wert my shelter! O!I am unmask'd, unspirited, undone,Betray'd to beggary, to infamy—[ENTER MOSCA, WOUNDED AND BLEEDING.]MOS: Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men,To beat out my unlucky brains?VOLP: Here, here.What! dost thou bleed?MOS: O that his well-driv'n swordHad been so courteous to have cleft me downUnto the navel; ere I lived to seeMy life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, allThus desperately engaged, by my error!VOLP: Woe on thy fortune!MOS: And my follies, sir.VOLP: Thou hast made me miserable.MOS: And myself, sir.Who would have thought he would have harken'd, so?VOLP: What shall we do?MOS: I know not; if my heartCould expiate the mischance, I'd pluck it out.Will you be pleased to hang me? or cut my throat?And I'll requite you, sir. Let us die like Romans,Since we have lived like Grecians.[KNOCKING WITHIN.]VOLP: Hark! who's there?I hear some footing; officers, the saffi,Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brandHissing already at my forehead; now,Mine ears are boring.MOS: To your couch, sir, you,Make that place good, however.[VOLPONE LIES DOWN, AS BEFORE.]—Guilty menSuspect what they deserve still.[ENTER CORBACCIO.]Signior Corbaccio!CORB: Why, how now, Mosca?MOS: O, undone, amazed, sir.Your son, I know not by what accident,Acquainted with your purpose to my patron,Touching your Will, and making him your heir,Enter'd our house with violence, his sword drawnSought for you, call'd you wretch, unnatural,Vow'd he would kill you.CORB: Me!MOS: Yes, and my patron.CORB: This act shall disinherit him indeed;Here is the Will.MOS: 'Tis well, sir.CORB: Right and well:Be you as careful now for me.[ENTER VOLTORE, BEHIND.]MOS: My life, sir,Is not more tender'd; I am only yours.CORB: How does he? will he die shortly, think'st thou?MOS: I fearHe'll outlast May.CORB: To-day?MOS: No, last out May, sir.CORB: Could'st thou not give him a dram?MOS: O, by no means, sir.CORB: Nay, I'll not bid you.VOLT [COMING FORWARD.]: This is a knave, I see.MOS [SEEING VOLTORE.]: How! signior Voltore![ASIDE.] did he hear me?VOLT: Parasite!MOS: Who's that?—O, sir, most timely welcome—VOLT: Scarce,To the discovery of your tricks, I fear.You are his, ONLY? and mine, also? are you not?MOS: Who? I, sir?VOLT: You, sir. What device is thisAbout a Will?MOS: A plot for you, sir.VOLT: Come,Put not your foists upon me; I shall scent them.MOS: Did you not hear it?VOLT: Yes, I hear CorbaccioHath made your patron there his heir.MOS: 'Tis true,By my device, drawn to it by my plot,With hope—VOLT: Your patron should reciprocate?And you have promised?MOS: For your good, I did, sir.Nay, more, I told his son, brought, hid him here,Where he might hear his father pass the deed:Being persuaded to it by this thought, sir,That the unnaturalness, first, of the act,And then his father's oft disclaiming in him,(Which I did mean t'help on,) would sure enrage himTo do some violence upon his parent,On which the law should take sufficient hold,And you be stated in a double hope:Truth be my comfort, and my conscience,My only aim was to dig you a fortuneOut of these two old rotten sepulchres—VOLT: I cry thee mercy, Mosca.MOS: Worth your patience,And your great merit, sir. And see the change!VOLT: Why, what success?MOS: Most happless! you must help, sir.Whilst we expected the old raven, in comesCorvino's wife, sent hither by her husband—VOLT: What, with a present?MOS: No, sir, on visitation;(I'll tell you how anon;) and staying long,The youth he grows impatient, rushes forth,Seizeth the lady, wounds me, makes her swear(Or he would murder her, that was his vow)To affirm my patron to have done her rape:Which how unlike it is, you see! and hence,With that pretext he's gone, to accuse his father,Defame my patron, defeat you—VOLT: Where is her husband?Let him be sent for straight.MOS: Sir, I'll go fetch him.VOLT: Bring him to the Scrutineo.MOS: Sir, I will.VOLT: This must be stopt.MOS: O you do nobly, sir.Alas, 'twas labor'd all, sir, for your good;Nor was there want of counsel in the plot:But fortune can, at any time, o'erthrowThe projects of a hundred learned clerks, sir.CORB [LISTENING]: What's that?VOLT: Will't please you, sir, to go along?[EXIT CORBACCIO, FOLLOWED BY VOLTORE.]MOS: Patron, go in, and pray for our success.VOLP [RISING FROM HIS COUCH.]: Need makes devotion:heaven your labour bless![EXEUNT.]