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I cannot hold : good rascal, let me kiss thee :
Mos. Alas, sir, I but do, as I am taught;
Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment Is avarice to itself!
Mos. I, with our help, sir.
Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often calid on, as no wish Can be more frequent with 'em, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them ; yea their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! Nay here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy, feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age, With confident belying it, hopes he may With charms, like Æson, have his youth restored : And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate Would be as easily cheated on as he: And all turns air! Who's that there, now? a third ?
(Another knocks.) Mos. Close to your couch again: I hear his voice. It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.
Corvino, a Merchant, enters.
Coru. Why? what? wherein ?
Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good;
Mos. Why, sir?
Mos. Perhaps he has
Corv. Venice was never owner of the like,
Cory. How do you, sir?
Mos. Best shew't, sir,
Corv. 'Las, good gentleman !
Mos. Tut forget, sir.
Coro. Why, am I his heir ?
Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will,
Should be executor! Corvino. And
Corv. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us?
Mos. No more than a blind harper.. He knows no man No face of friend, nor name of any servant, Who’t was 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, Gypsies, and Jews, and black-moors, 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 given 'em nothing. Corv. 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 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
Corv. Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the rain Ran down in streaks.
Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out;
Corv. His nose is like a common sewer, still running.
up Corv. By no means.
Mos. Pray you let me.
Coro. Do as you will, but I'll begone.
Mos. Be so;
Corv. I pray you use no violence.
Mos. No, sir, why?
Coru. Nay at your discretion.
Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless care
Cory. Grateful Mosca !
Volp. My divine Mosca !
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE: BEING THE SECOND OF FOUR PLAYS, OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS, IN
ONE. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
Violanta, Daughter to a Nobleman of Milan, is with child
by Gerrard, supposed to be of mean descent: an offence which by the laws of Milan is made capital to both parties,
Ger. O my sweet mistress,
blood is in it. But since your love
Viol. O Gerrard, thou art my life and faculties,