Corb. Publish'd me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him-
Corb. Ay.

Mos. Being so lusty a man

Corb. 'Tis true.

Mos. Yes, sir-

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 gray withal,)how to work things-
Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.
Mos. You are he,

For whom I labour, here.

Corb. Ay, do, do, do :

I'll straight about it.

Mos. Rook go with you, raven !'

Corb. I know thee honest.

Mos. You do lie, sir!

[Going.

[Aside.

Corb. And

3 Rook go with you, raven!] May you, raven, be rooked, or cheated! as Upton explains it. There never was a scene of avarice in the extremity of old age better drawn than this.

WHAL.

Nor ever so well. Hurd (who had just been reading Congreve's letters to Dennis) terms the humour of it" inordinate ;" and blames Jonson for sporting so freely with the infirmities of Corbaccio. I can see no occasion for this. If avarice be, in any case, a legitimate object of satire, surely it is eminently so when accompanied, as here, with age and infirmity. Bad passions become more odious in proportion as the motives for them are weakened; and gratuitous vice cannot be too indignantly exposed to reprehension.

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 have my youth restored to me,
why not?

Mos. Your worship is a precious ass!
Corb. What say'st thou?

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.

Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done; I go.

[Exit. Volp. [leaping from his couch.] 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! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give them words;* Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence. Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punish

ment

Is avarice to itself!

Mos. Ay, with our help, sir.

-give them words ;] i. e. deceive or impose

An ut ignotum, dare nobis

on them:

Verba putus?

Horat. L. i. Sat. 3.

This is Upton's remark. That dare verba signifies to cajole, to impose upon, is certain; such, however, is not the sense of the expression here. By give them words, Mosca simply, or rather artfully, means, that he clothes the " grave instructions" of his patron in fitting language. He speaks of Volpone, not of Corbaccio and the rest, who are distinctly noticed in the next line. The glimpse of a classical allusion is a perfect ignis fatuus to Upton, who is sure to blunder after it at all hazards

Volp. So many cares, so many maladies,"
So many fears attending on old age,

Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish
Can be more frequent with them, 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! [knocking within.] Who's that there, now? a third!

Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice:

It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.

Volp. [lies down as before.] Dead.

Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [anointing them.]-Who's there?

Enter CORVINO.

Signior Corvino! come most wish'd for! O,
How happy were you, if you knew it, now!
Coro. Why? what? wherein ?

Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir.

Coro. He is not dead?

Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good;

He knows no man.

5 So many cares, &c.] In this fine speech Jonson has again laid the fragments of the Greek drama under contribution; Lucian and Juvenal, however, had set him the example.

Coro. How shall I do then?

Mos. Why, sir?

Coro. I have brought him here a pearl.
Mos. 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?"
Coro. Venice was never owner of the like.

Volp. [faintly.] Signior Corvino !

Mos. Hark.

Volp. Signior Corvino !

Mos. He calls you; step and give it him. He's here, sir,

And he has brought you a rich pearl.
Corv. How do you, sir?

Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract.'
Mos. Sir,

He cannot understand, his hearing's gone;
And yet it comforts him to see you———
Coro. Say,

I have a diamond for him, too.

Mos. Best shew it, sir;

Put it into his hand; 'tis only there

He apprehends: he has his feeling, yet.

See how he grasps it!

Corv. 'Las, good gentleman!

How pitiful the sight is!

6

Is your pearl orient, sir?] i. e. bright, sparkling, pellucid. Thus Shakspeare :

66 Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded."

And Milton,

"Offering to every wearied traveller

"His orient liquor in a crystal glass." Comus, v. 64. 7 It doubles the twelfth caract.] A caract is a weight of four grains, by which jewels are weighed. The same expression occurs in Cartwright:

66

Diamonds, two whereof

"Do double the twelfth caract?"

Lady Errant.

Mos. Tut! forget, sir,

The weeping of an heir should still be laughter Under a visor.

Coro. Why, am I his heir?

Mos. 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,
Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino, took

Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him,
Whom he would have his heir? Corvino. Who
Should be executor? Corvino. And,
Το any question he was silent to,

I still interpreted the nods he made,

Through weakness, for consent: and sent home th' others,

Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse.' Coro. O, my dear Mosca! [They embrace.] 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 'twas that fed him last, or gave him drink:
Not those he hath begotten, or brought up,
Can he remember.

Coro. Has he children?

Mos. Bastards,

Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars,

The weeping of an heir should still be laughter

Under a visor.]

Hæredis fletus sub persond risus est. P. Syrus.

9 Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse.] From Horace, as Upton observes: