Volp. Set the plate away : The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come!* A wretch who is indeed more impotent Enter CORBACCIO. Signior Corbaccio! You're very welcome, sir. Corb. How does your patron Mos. Troth, as he did, sir; no amends. Corb. What! mends he? Mos. No, sir: he's 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 should 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 it was made, saw all the ingredients; And know, it cannot but most gently work: ▾ The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come !] In allusion to their different names. Corbaccio, in Italian, signifies an old raven. WHAL. Mos. Sir, He has no faith in physic. Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think Corb. Not I his heir? Mos. Not your physician, sir. 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 them, 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. Ay, 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. 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. 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. What has he given 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. I do not know, sir. 2 O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy;] Scotomia is a dizziness or - swimming in the head. See Massinger, vol. IV. 521. VOL. III. Corb. True: I know it too Mos. By your own scale, sir. [Aside. I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate. Mos. [taking the bag.] 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. Ay, 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 my venture: Give me it again. Mos. At no hand; pardon me: You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I 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. 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. [Pointing to the money. 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 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 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- |