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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
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 th' ingredients;
And know it cannot but most gently work.

My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.
Volp. I, 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 greatest danger,
And worst disease t' escape. I often have
Heard him protest, that your physician
Should never be his heir.

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,
Before they kill him.

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 licence as a Judge.

Mos. Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,
And these can kill him too.


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His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,
His face drawn longer than 'twas wont.-
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 colour 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!

How does he with the swimming of his head?
Mos. O, sir 'tis past the scotomy; he now

Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort:
You hardly can perceive him that he breathes.
Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him:
This makes me young again a score of years.

Mos. I was coming for you, sir.

Corb. Has he made his will?

What has he giv'n 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.
Corb. To be his heir?

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. It shall be minister'd to him in his bowl?
Corb. I, do, do, do.

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

Give me❜t again.

Mos. At no hand; pardon me

You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I

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,

Decreed by destiny.

Corb. How? how, good Mosca ?



Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover.
Corb. I do conceive you.

Mos. And on first advantage

Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his testament :

And shew him this.
Corb. Good, good.
Mos. 'Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.

Corb. Yes, with all my


Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home with


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 colour

Shall make it much more taking.

Corb. O, but colour?

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
Upon my master, and made him your


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. I.

Mos. Being so lusty a man

Corb. 'Tis true.

Mos. Yes, sir

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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 labour, here.

Corb. I, 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 ears, 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 saist thou?

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.
Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go.

Volp. O, I shall burst ;

Let out my sides, let out my sides

Mos. Contain

Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope

Is such a bait it covers any hook.

Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it!

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