by Ben Jonson
VOLTORE: But am I sole heir?
MOSCA: Without a partner, sir, confirmed this morning;
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.
VOLTORE: Happy, happy me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?
MOSCA: Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause.
VOLTORE: Thy modesty
50 Is loath to know it; well, we shall requite it.
MOSCA: He ever liked your course, sir; that first took him.
I oft have heard him say how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And re-turn; make knots, and undo them;
Give forkèd counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up. These men,
60 He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blessed
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplexed a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin!
Another knocks.
Who’s that? One knocks. I would not have you seen, sir.
And yet – pretend you came and went in haste;
I’ll fashion an excuse. And, gentle sir,
70 When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I ha’not been your worst of clients.
VOLTORE: Mosca –
MOSCA: When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will? – Anon. –
I‘ll bring ’em to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business i’your face.
[Exit VOLTORE.]
VOLPONE: Excellent, Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.
MOSCA: Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.
80 VOLPONE: Set the plate away.
The vulture’s gone, and the old raven’s come.
I,iv [MOSCA:] Betake you to your silence, and your sleep. –
Stand there and multiply. – Now shall we see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than this can feign to be, yet hopes to hop
Over his grave.
[Enter CORBACCIO.]
Signior Corbaccio!
You’re very welcome, sir.
COBBACCIO: How does your patron?
MOSCA: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.
CORBACCIO [deaf]: What? mends he?
MOSCA [shouting]: No, sir. He is rather worse.
CORBACCIO: That’s well. Where is he?
MOSCA: Upon his couch, sir, newly fall’n asleep.
10 CORBACCIO: Does he sleep well?
MOSCA: No wink, sir, all this night,
Nor yesterday, but slumbers.
CORBACCIO: Good! He should take
Some counsel of physicians. I have brought him
An opiate here, from mine own doctor –
MOSCA: He will not hear of drugs.
CORBACCIO: Why? I myself
Stood by while ’t was made, saw all th’ingredients,
And know it cannot but most gently work.
My life for his, ’tis but to make him sleep.
VOLPONE [aside]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.
MOSCA: Sir,
He has no faith in physic.
CORBACCIO: Say you, say you?
20 MOSCA: He has no faith in physic: he does think
Most of your doctors are the greater danger,
And worse disease t’escape. I often have
Heard him protest that your physician
Should never be his heir.
CORBACCIO: Not I his heir?
MOSCA: Not your physician, sir.
CORBACCIO: O, no, no, no,
I do not mean it.
MOSCA: No, sir, nor their fees
He cannot brook; he says they flay a man
Before they kill him.
CORBACCIO: Right, I do conceive you.
MOSCA: And then, they do it by experiment,
30 For which the law not only doth absolve ’em,
But gives them great reward; and he is loath
To hire his death so.
CORBACCIO: It is true, they kill
With as much licence as a judge.
MOSCA: Nay, more;
For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,
And these can kill him too.
CORBACCIO: Ay, or me,
Or any man. How does his apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?
MOSCA: Most violent.
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,
His face drawn longer than ’t was wont –
CORBACCIO: How? how?
Stronger than he was wont?
40 MOSCA: No, sir; his face
Drawn longer than ’t was wont.
CORBACCIO: O, good.
MOSCA: His mouth
Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.
CORBACCIO: Good.
MOSCA: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints,
And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.
CORBACCIO: ’Tis good.
MOSCA: His pulse beats slow and dull.
CORBACCIO: Good symptoms still.
MOSCA: And from his brain –
CORBACCIO: Ha! how? not from his brain?
MOSCA: Yes, sir, and from his brain –
CORBACCIO: I conceive you; good.
MOSCA: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum,
Forth the resolvèd corners of his eyes.
50 CORBACCIO: Is’t possible? Yet I am better, ha!
How does he with the swimming of his head?
MOSCA: 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.
CORBACCIO: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him!
This makes me young again, a score of years.
MOSCA: I was a–coming for you, sir.
CORBACCIO: Has he made his will?
What has he given me?
MOSCA: No, sir.
CORBACCIO: Nothing? ha!
MOSCA: He has not made his will, sir.
CORBACCIO: Oh, oh, oh.
60 What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here?
MOSCA: He smelled a carcass, sir, when he but heard
My master was about his testament;
As I did urge him to it for your good –
CORBACCIO: He came unto him, did he? I thought so.
MOSCA: Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.
CORBACCIO: To be his heir?
MOSCA: I do not know, sir.
CORBACCIO: True,
I know it too.
MOSCA [aside]: By your own scale, sir.
CORBACCIO: Well,
I shall prevent him yet. See, Mosca, look,
Here I have brought a bag of bright chequins,
70 Will quite weigh down his plate.
MOSCA [taking the bag]: Yea, marry, sir,
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine;
No talk of opiates to this great elixir.
CORBACCIO: ’Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
MOSCA: It shall be ministered to him, in his bowl?
CORBACCIO: Ay, do, do, do.
MOSCA: Most blessèd cordial!
This will recover him.
CORBACCIO: Yes, do, do, do.
MOSCA: I think it were not best, sir.
MOSCA: To recover him.
CORBACCIO: O, no, no, no; by no means.
MOSCA: Why, sir, this
Will work some strange effect if he but feel it.
80 CORBACCIO: ’Tis true, therefore forbear; I’ll take my venture;
Give me ’t again.
MOSCA: At no hand. Pardon me.
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I
Will so advise you, you shall have it all.
CORBACCIO: How?
MOSCA: All, sir; ’tis your right, your own; no man
Can claim a part; ’tis yours without a rival,
Decreed by destiny.
CORBACCIO: How, how, good Mosca?
MOSCA: I’ll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover –
CORBACCIO: I do conceive you.
MOSCA: And on first advantage
Of his gained sense, will I re-importune him
90 Unto the making of his testament,
And show him this.
CORBACCIO: Good, good.
MOSCA: ’Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.
CORBACCIO: Yes, with all my heart.
MOSCA: Now would i counsel you, make home with speed;
There, frame a will, whereto you shall inscribe
My master your sole heir.
CORBACCIO: And disinherit
My son?
MOSCA: O, sir, the better; for that colour
Shall make it much more taking.
CORBACCIO: O, but colour?
MOSCA: This will, sir, you shall send it unto me.
Now, when I come to enforce, as I will do,
100 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 heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone dead,
But out of conscience and mere gratitude –
CORBACCIO: He must pronounce me his?
MOSCA: ‘Tis true.
CORBACCIO: This plot
110 Did I think on before.
MOSCA: I do believe it.
CORBACCIO: Do you not believe it?
MOSCA: Yes, sir.
CORBACCIO: Mine own project.
MOSCA: Which, when he hath done, sir –
CORBACCIO: Published me his heir?
MOSCA: And you so certain to survive him –
CORBACCIO: Ay.
MOSCA: Being so lusty a man –
CORBACCIO: ’Tis true.
MOSCA: Yes, sir–
CORBACCIO: I thought on that too. See, how he should be
The very organ to express my thoughts!
MOSCA: You have not only done yourself a good –
CORBACCIO: But multiplied it on my son?
MOSCA: ’Tis right, sir.
CORBACCIO: Still my invention.
MOSCA: ’Las, sir! heaven knows
120 It hath been all my study, all my care,
(I e’en grow grey withal) how to work things –
CORBACCIO: I do conceive, sweet Mosca.
MOSCA: You are he
For whom I labour here.
CORBACCIO: Ay, do, do, do.
I‘ll straight about it.
MOSCA [aside]: Rook go with you, raven !
CORBACCIO: I know thee honest.
MOSCA [aside]: You do lie, sir.
CORBACCIO: And–
MOSCA [aside]: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.
CORBACCIO: I do not doubt to be a father to thee.
MOSCA [aside]: Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing.
CORBACCIO: I may ha’my youth restored to me, why not?
130 MOSCA [aside]: Your worship is a precious ass –
CORBACCIO: What sayst thou?
MOSCA: I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.
CORBACCIO: ’Tis done, ’Tis done, I go.
[Exit.]
VOLPONE: O, I shall burst!
Let out my sides, let out my sides.
MOSCA: Contain
Your flux of laughter, sir. You know this hope
Is such a bait it covers any hook.
VOLPONE: O, but thy working, and thy placing it!
I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee.
I never knew thee in so rare a humour.
MOSCA: Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught;
140 Follow your grave instructions; give ’em words;
Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence.
VOLPONE: ’Tis true, ’tis true. What a rare punishment
Is avarice to itself!
MOSCA: Ay, with our help, sir.
VOLPONE: So many cares, so many maladies,
So many fears attending on old age.
Yea, death so often called on as no wish
Can be more frequent with ’em. Their limbs faint,
Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going,
150 All dead before them; yea, their very teeth,
Their instruments of eating, failing them;
Yet this is reckoned 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!
Another knocks
Who’s that there, now? a third?
160 MOSCA: Close to your couch again; I hear his voice.
It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.
VOLPONE [lying in bed]: Dead.
MOSCA: Another bout, sir, with your eyes. –who ’s there?
1, V [Enter CORVINO.]
[MOSCA]: Signior Corvino! come most wished for! O,
How happy were you, if you knew it, now!
CORVINO: Why? what? wherein?
MOSCA: The tardy hour is come, sir.
CORVINO: He is not dead?
MOSCA: Not dead, sir, but as good;
He knows no man.
CORVINO: How shall I do then?
MOSCA: Why, sir?
CORVINO: I have brought him here a pearl.
MOSCA: perhaps he has
So much remembrance left as to know you, sir.
He still calls on you, nothing but your name
Is in his mouth. Is your pearl orient, sir?
10 CORVINO: Venice was never owner of the like.
VOLPONE: Signior Corvino!
MOSCA: Hark!
VOLPONE: Signior Corvino!
MOSCA: He calls you; step and give it him. He is here, sir.
And he has brought you a rich pearl.
CORVINO: How do you, sir?
Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract.
MOSCA: Sir,
He cannot understand, his hearing’s gone,
And yet it comforts him to see you –
CORVINO: Say
I have a diamond for him, too.
MOSCA: Best show ’t, sir,
Put it into his hand; ‘tis only there
He apprehends, he has his feeling yet.
See how he grasps it!
20 CORVINO: ’Las, good gentleman!
How pitiful the sight is!
MOSCA: Tut, forget, sir.
The weeping of an heir should still be laughter
Under a visor.
CORVINO: Why, am I his heir?
MOSCA: Sir, I am sworn, I may not show the will
Till he be dead. But here has been Corbaccio,
Here has been Voltore, here were others too
–
I cannot number ’em, they were so many –
All gaping here for legacies; but I,
Taking the vantage of his naming you,
30 ‘Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino, ’took
Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him
Whom he would have his heir? ‘Corvino.’Who
Should be executor? ‘Corvino.’And
To any question he was silent to,
I still interpreted the nods he made,
Through weakness, for consent; and sent home th’others,
Nothing bequeathed them but to cry and curse.
They embrace.
CORVINO: O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us?
MOSCA: No more than a blind harper. He knows no man,
40 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
CORVINO: Has he children?
MOSCA: 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.
50 CORVINO: That’s well, that’s well. Art sure he does not hear us?
MOSCA: Sure, sir? why, look you, credit your own sense. –
[He shouts at VOLPONE.]
The pox approach and add to your diseases,
If it would send you hence the sooner, sir!
For your incontinence, it hath deserved it
Throughly and throughly, and the plague to boot!
(You may come near, sir.) Would you would once close
Those filthy eyes of yours that flow with slime
Like two frog-pits, and those same hanging cheeks,
Covered with hide instead of skin (Nay, help, sir)
60 That look like frozen dish-clouts set on end.
CORVINO: Or, like an old smoked wall, on which the rain
Ran down in streaks.
MOSCA: Excellent, sir, speak out.
You may be louder yet; a culverin
Discharged in his ear would hardly bore it.
CORVINO: His nose is like a common sewer, still running.
MOSCA: ’Tis good! And what his mouth?
CORVINO: A very draught.
MOSCA: O, stop it up –
CORVINO: By no means.
MOSCA: Pray you, let me.
Faith I could stifle him rarely with a pillow,
As well as any woman that should keep him.
70 CORVINO: Do as you will, but I’ll be gone.
MOSCA: Be so.
It is your presence makes him last so long.
CORVINO: I pray you, use no violence.
MOSCA: No, sir? Why?
Why should you be thus scrupulous, pray you, sir?
CORVINO: Nay, at your discretion.
MOSCA: Well, good sir, be gone.