by Ben Jonson
Here is rhyme not empty of reason.
This we were bid to credit from our poet,
Whose true scope, if you would know it,
In all his poems still hath been this measure:
To mix profit with your pleasure;
And not as some, whose throats their envy failing,
Cry hoarsely, ‘All he writes is railing,’
10 And when his plays come forth, think they can flout them,
With saying, ‘He was a year about them.’
To these there needs no lie but this his creature,
Which was two months since no feature;
And though he dares give them five lives to mend it,
’Tis known, five weeks fully penned it,
From his own hand, without a coadjutor,
Novice, journeyman, or tutor.
Yet thus much I can give you as a token
20 Of his play’s worth: no eggs are broken,
Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted,
Wherewith your rout are so delighted;
Nor hales he in a gull old ends reciting,
To stop gaps in his loose writing,
With such a deal of monstrous and forced action,
As might make Bedlam a faction;
Nor made he his play for jests stol’n from each table,
But makes jests to fit his fable.
And so presents quick comedy refined,
30 As best critics have designed;
The laws of time, place, persons he observeth,
From no needful rule he swerveth.
All gall and copperas from his ink he draineth,
Only a little salt remaineth,
Wherewith he’ll rub your cheeks, till, red with laughter,
They shall look fresh a week after.
ACT ONE
I, i [Volpone’s house.]
[Volpone in a large bed. Enter MOSCA. VOLPONE awakes.]
[VOLPONE:] Good morning to the day; and next, my gold!
Open the shrine, that i may see my saint.
[MOSCA draws a curtain, revealing piles of gold.]
Hail the world’s soul, and mine! More glad than is
The teeming earth to see the longed-for sun
Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram,
Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his;
That lying here, amongst my other hoards,
Show’st like a flame by night, or like the day
Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled
10 Unto the centre. O, thou son of Sol
(But brighter than thy father) let me kiss,
With adoration, thee, and every relic
Of sacred treasure in this blessèd room.
Well did wise poets by thy glorious name
Title that age which they would have the best,
Thou being the best of things, and far transcending
All style of joy in children, parents, friends,
Or any other waking dream on earth.
Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe,
20 They should have giv’n her twenty thousand Cupids,
Such are thy beauties and our loves! Dear saint,
Riches, the dumb god that giv’st all men tongues,
That canst do nought, and yet mak’st men do all things;
The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot,
Is made worth heaven! Thou art virtue, fame,
Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee,
He, shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise –
MOSCA: And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune
A greater good man wisdom is in nature.
30 VOLPONE: True, my belovèd Mosca. Yet, I glory
More in the cunning purchase of my wealth
Than in the glad possession, since I gain
No common way: I use no trade, no venture;
I wound no earth with ploughshares; fat no beasts
To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron,
Oil, corn, or men, to grind ’em into powder;
I blow no subtle glass; expose no ships
To threat’nings of the furrow-facèd sea;
I turn no moneys in the public bank,
40 Nor usure private –
MOSCA: No, sir, nor devour
Soft prodigals. You shall ha’some will swallow
A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch
Will pills of butter, and ne’er purge for ’t;
Tear forth the fathers of poor families
Out of their beds, and coffin them, alive,
In some kind, clasping prison, where their bones
May be forthcoming, when the flesh is rotten.
But, your sweet nature doth abhor these courses;
You loathe the widow’s or the orphan’s tears
50 Should wash your pavements, or their piteous cries
Ring in your roofs, and beat the air for vengeance –
VOLPONE: Right, Mosca, I do loathe it.
MOSCA: And, besides, sir,
You are not like the thresher that doth stand
With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn,
And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain,
But feeds on mallows and such bitter herbs;
Nor like the merchant, who hath filled his vaults
With Romagnia and rich Candian wines,
Yet drinks the lees of Lombard’s vinegar.
60 You will not lie in straw, whilst moths and worms
Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds.
You know the use of riches, and dare give, now,
From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer,
Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite,
Your eunuch, or what other household trifle
Your pleasure allows maint’nance –
VOLPONE: Hold thee, Mosca,
[Gives him money.]
Take, of my hand; thou strik’st on truth in all,
And they are envious term thee parasite.
Call forth my dwarf, my eunuch, and my fool,
And let ’em make me sport.
[Exit MOSCA.]
70 What should I do
But cocker up my genius and live free
To all delights my fortune calls me to?
I have no wife, no parent, child, ally,
To give my substance to; but whom I make
Must be my heir, and this makes men observe me.
This draws new clients, daily, to my house,
Women and men of every sex and age,
That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels,
With hope that when I die (which they expect
80 Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Tenfold upon them; whilst some, covetous
Above the rest, seek to engross me, whole,
And counter-work the one unto the other,
Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love.
All which I suffer, playing with their hopes,
And am content to coin ’em into profit,
And look upon their kindness, and take more,
And look on that; still bearing them in hand,
Letting the cherry knock against their lips,
90 And draw it by their mouths, and back again. How now!
1, ii [Enter MOSCA withNANO, ANDSOGYNO, and CASTRONE.]
[NANO (reciting):] Now, toom for fresh gamesters, who do will you to know,
They do bring you neither play nor university show;
And therefore do entreat you that whatsoever they rehearse,
May not fare a whit the worse, for the false pace of the verse.
If you wonder at this, you will wonder more ere we pass,
For know, here is enclosed the soul of Pythagoras,
[Pointing to ANDROGYNO.]
That juggler divine, as hereafter shall follow;
Which soul, fast and loose, sir, came first from Apollo,
And was
breathed into Æthalides, Mercurius’s son,
10 Where it had the gift to remember all that ever was done.
From thence it fled forth, and made quick transmigration
To goldy-locked Euphorbus, who was killed in good fashion,
At the siege of old Troy, by the cuckold of Sparta.
Hermotimus was next (I find it in my charta)
To whom it did pass, where no sooner it was missing,
But with one Pyrrhus of Delos it learned to go a–fishing;
And thence did it enter the sophist of Greece.
From Pythagore she went into a beautiful piece,
Hight Aspasia, the meretrix; and the next toss of her
20 Was again of a whore, she became a philosopher,
Crates the Cynic, as itself doth relate it.
Since, kings, knights, and beggars, knaves, lords, and fools gat it,
Besides ox and ass, camel, mule, goat, and brock,
In all which it hath spoke, as in the Cobbler’s cock.
But I come not here to discourse of that matter,
Or his one, two, or three, or his great oath, ‘By Quater!’
His musics, his trigon, his golden thigh,
Or his telling how elements shift; but I
Would ask, how of late thou hast suffered translation,
30 And shifted thy coat in these days of reformation?
ANDROGYNO [reciting]: Like one of the reformèd, a fool, as you see, Counting all old doctrine heresy.
NANO: But not on thine own forbid meats hast thou ventured?
ANDROGYNO: On fish, when first a Carthusian I entered.
NANO: Why, then thy dogmatical silence hath left thee?
ANDROGYNO: Of that an obstreperous lawyer bereft me.
NANO: O wonderful change! When Sir Lawyer forsook thee,
For Pythagore’s sake, what body then took thee?
ANDROGYNO: A good, dull moyle.
NANO: And how! by that means
40 Thou wert brought to allow of the eating of beans?
ANDROGYNO: Yes.
NANO: But from the moyle into whom didst thou pass?
ANDROGYNO: Into a very strange beast, by some writers called an ass;
By others, a precise, pure, illuminate brother,
Of those devour flesh, and sometimes one another,
And will drop you forth a libel, or a sanctified lie,
Betwixt every spoonful of a nativity-pie.
NANO: Now quit thee, for heaven, of that profane nation,
And gently report thy next transmigration.
ANDROGYNO: To the same that I am.
NANO: A creature of delight,
50 And what is more than a fool, an hermaphrodite?
Now, prithee, sweet soul, in all thy variation,
Which body wouldst thou choose to take up thy station?
ANDROGYNO: Troth, this I am in, even here would I tarry.
NANO: ’Cause here the delight of each sex thou canst vary?
ANDROGYNO: Alas, those pleasures be stale and forsaken;
No, ’tis your Fool wherewith I am so taken,
The only one creature that I can call blessèd,
For all other forms I have proved most distressèd.
NANO: Spoke true, as thou wert in Pythagoras still.
60 This learnèd opinion we celebrate will,
Fellow eunuch, as behoves us, with all our wit and art,
To dignify that whereof ourselves are so great and special a part.
VOLPONE: Now, very, very pretty! Mosca, this
Was thy invention?
MOSCA: If it please my patron,
Not else.
VOLPONE: It doth, good Mosca.
MOSCA: Then it was, sir.
SONG
Fools, they are the only nation
Worth men’s envy or admiration;
Free from care or sorrow-taking,
Selves and others merry making,
70 All they speak or do is sterling.
Your Fool, he is your great man’s dearling,
And your ladies’sport and pleasure;
Tongue and babble are his treasure.
E’en his face begetteth laughter,
And he speaks truth free from slaughter;
He’s the grace of every feast,
And, sometimes, the chiefest guest;
Hath his trencher and his stool,
When wit waits upon the Fool.
80 O, who would not be
He, he, he?
One knocks without.
VOLPONE: Who’s that? Away! Look, Mosca.
MOSCA: Fool, begone!
[Exeunt NANO, CASTRONS, and ANDROGYNO.]
’Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate;
I know him by his knock.
VOLPONE: Fetch me my gown,
My furs, and night-caps; say my couch is changing,
And let him entertain himself awhile
Without i’th’gallery.
[Exit MOSCA.]
Now, now, my clients
Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite,
Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey,
90 That think me turning carcass, now they come.
I am not for ’em yet.
[Enter MOSCA with the gown, furs, etc.]
How now? the news?
MOSCA: A piece of plate, sir.
VOLPONE: Of what bigness?
MOSCA: Huge,
Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed,
And arms engraven.
VOLPONE: Good! and not a Fox
Stretched on the earth, with fine delusive sleights
Mocking a gaping Crow – ha, Mosca?
MOSCA: Sharp, sir.
VOLPONE: Give me my furs. Why dost thou laugh so, man?
MOSCA: I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend
What thoughts he has, without, now, as he walks:
100 That this might be the last gift he should give;
That this would fetch you; if you died today,
And gave him all, what he should be tomorrow;
What large return would come of all his ventures;
How he should worshipped be, and reverenced;
Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on
By herds of fools and clients; have clear way
Made for his moyle, as lettered as himself;
Be called the great and learned advocate:
And then concludes, there’s nought impossible.
VOLPONE: Yes, to be learnèd, Mosca.
110 MOSCA: O, no; rich
Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple,
So you can hide his two ambitious ears,
And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor.
VOLPONE: My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in.
MOSCA: Stay, sir; your ointment for your eyes.
VOLPONE: That’s true;
Dispatch, dispatch. I long to have possession
Of my new present.
MOSCA: That, and thousands more,
I hope to see you lord of.
VOLPONE: Thanks, kind Mosca.
MOSCA: And that, when I am lost in blended dust,
120 And hundreds such as I am, in succession –
VOLPONE: Nay, that were too much, Mosca.
MOSCA: You shall live
Still to delude these harpies.
VOLPONE: Loving Mosca!
‘Tis well. My pillow now, and let him enter.
[Exit MOSCA.]
Now, my feigned cough, my phthisic, and my gout,
My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs,
Help, with your forcèd functions, this my posture,
Wherein, this three year, I have milked their hopes.
He comes, I hear him – uh! uh! uh! uh! O!
[VOLPONE gets into bed.]
1, iii [Enter MOSCA with VOLTORE]
[MOSCA:] You still are what you were, sir. Only you,
Of all the rest, are he commands his love,
/> And you do wisely to preserve it thus,
With early visitation, and kind notes
Of your good meaning to him, which, I know,
Cannot but come most grateful. Patron, sir.
Here’s Signior Voltore is come –
VOLPONE: What say you?
MOSCA: Sir, Signior Voltore is come this morning
To visit you.
VOLPONE: I thank him.
MOSCA: And hath brought
10 A piece of antique plate, bought of St Mark,
With which he here presents you.
VOLPONE: He is welcome.
Pray him to come more often.
MOSCA: Yes.
VOLTORE: What says he?
MOSCA: He thanks you and desires you see him often.
VOLPONE: Mosca.
MOSCA: My patron?
VOLPONE: Bring him near, where is he?
I long to feel his hand.
MOSCA: The plate is here, sir.
VOLTORE: How fare you, sir?
VOLPONE: I thank you, Signior Voltore.
Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.
VOLTORE: I’m sorry
To see you still thus weak.
MOSCA [aside]: That he is not weaker.
VOLPONE. You are too munificent.
VOLTORE: No, sir, would to heaven
20 I could as well give health to you as that plate!
VOLPONE: You give, sir, what you can. I thank you. Your love
Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswered.
I pray you see me often.
VOLTORE: Yes, I shall, sir.
VOLPONE: Be not far from me.
MOSCA: Do you observe that, sir?
VOLPONE: Hearken unto me still; it will concern you.
MOSCA: You are a happy man, sir; know your good.
VOLPONE: I cannot now last long –
MOSCA: You are his heir, sir.
VOLTORE: Am I?
VOLPONE: I feel me going – uh! uh! uh! uh!
I am sailing to my port – uh! uh! uh! uh!
And I am glad I am so near my haven.
30 MOSCA: Alas, kind gentleman. Well, we must all go –
VOLTORE: But, Mosca –
MOSCA: Age will conquer.
VOLTORE: Pray thee, hear me.
Am I inscribed his heir for certain?
MOSCA: Are you?
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me i’your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship. I am lost
Except the rising sun do shine on me.
VOLTORE: It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca.
MOSCA: Sir,
I am a man that have not done your love
40 All the worst offices. Here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets locked,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate, and moneys; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.