VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX: A COMEDY. BY BEN. JONSON. Volpone, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is without children, feigns himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as pay their court to him in the expectation of becoming his heirs. Mosca, his knavish confederate, persuades each of these men in turn, that he is named for the inheritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly presents. VOLPONE, as on his death-bed. MOSCA. CORBACCIO, an old gentle Mos. Signior Corbaccio, You are very welcome, sir. man. 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 fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well? Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Nor yesterday; but slumbers. Corb. Good! he shall take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him Mos. He will not hear of drugs. Corb. Why? I myself Stood by, while 'twas made; saw all th' ingredients ; And know it cannot but most gently work. My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. 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 greatest danger, A worst disease t' escape. I often have Corb. Not I his heir? Mos. Not your physician, sir. Corb. O, no, no, no, I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook; he says they flay a man, Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Mos. And then, they do it by experiment: For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, But gives them great reward; and he is loth To hire his death so. Corb. It is true, they kill, With as much license as a Judge. Mos. Nay, more : For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too. Corb. I, or me; Or any man. How does his apoplex ? Mos. Most violent, His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, Corb. How ? how? Stronger than he was wont? Mos. No, sir: his face Drawn longer than 'twas wont. Corb. O, good. Mos. His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. Corb. Good. Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the color of his flesh like lead. Corb. "Tis good. Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Corb. Good symptoms still. Mos. And from his brain Corb. Ha? how? not from his brain? Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain Corb. I conceive you, good. Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. Corb. Is 't possible? yet I am better, ha! Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him: Corb. Has he made his will? What has he givʼn me? Mos. No, sir. Corb. Nothing? ha? Mos. He has not made his will, sir. Corb. Oh, oh, oh. What then did Voltore the lawyer here? Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament ; As I did urge him to it for your good— Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought so. Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. Mos. I do not know, sir. Corb. True, I know it too. Mos. By your own scale, sir. Corb. Well, I shall prevent him yet. See, Mosca, look Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines, Will quite weigh down his plate. Mos. Yea marry, sir, This is true physic, this your sacred medicine; No talk of opiates, to this great elixir. Corb. Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Mos. Most blessed cordial. This will recover him. Corb. Yes, do, do, do. Mos. I think it were not best, sir. Corb. What? Mos. To recover him. Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means. Mos. Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect if he but feel it. Corb. 'Tis true, therefore forbear, I'll take my venture Give me 't again. Mos. At no hand; pardon me You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. Will so advise you, you shall have it all. Corb. How? Mos. All sir, 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part; 'tis yours without a rival, Corb. How? how, good Mosca ? Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. Mos. And on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament : And show him this. Corb. Good, good. Mos. "Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir. Corb. Yes, with all my heart. Mos. Now would I counsel you, make home with speed; There frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. Corb. And disinherit My son ? Mos. O sir, the better; for that color Shall make it much more taking. Corb. O, but color? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do) Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, And last produce your will; where (without thought, Or least regard unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting) The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you 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. I. 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 with all) how to work things Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. Mos. You are he, For whom I labor, here. Corb. I, do, do, do : |