I do confess I was unfortunate,

And you unhappy: but I'm bound in conscience,
No less than duty, to effect my best

To your release of torment, and I will, sir.
Volp. Dear Mosca, shall I hope?

Mos. Sir, more than dear,

I will not bid you to despair of aught
Within a human compass.

Volp. O, there spoke

My better angel. Mosca, take my keys,
Gold, plate, and jewels, all's at thy devotion;
Employ them how thou wilt; nay, coin me too :
So thou, in this, but crown my longings, Mosca.
Mos. Use but your patience.

Volp. So I have.

Mos. I doubt not

To bring success to your desires.
Volp. Nay, then,

I not repent me of my late disguise.

Mos. If you can horn him, sir, you need not. Volp. True:

Besides, I never meant him for my heir.

Is not the colour of my beard and eyebrows
To make me known?

Mos. No jot.

Volp. I did it well.

Mos. So well, would I could follow you in mine,

With half the happiness !—and yet I would

Escape your epilogue.'

Volp. But were they gull'd

With a belief that I was Scoto?

Mos. Sir,

[Aside.

Scoto himself could hardly have distinguish'd! I have not time to flatter you now, we'll part: And as I prosper, so applaud my art.

9

and yet I would

[Exeunt.

Escape your epilogue.] i. e. the beating which Volpone had received from Corvino.

SCENE III.

A Room in Corvino's House.

Enter CORVINO, with his sword in his hand, dragging in CELIA.

Coro. Death of mine honour, with the city's fool!

A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank!
And at a public window! where, whilst he,
With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces,'
To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears,
A crew of old, unmarried, noted letchers,
Stood leering up like satyrs: and you smile
Most graciously, and fan your favours forth,
To give your hot spectators satisfaction!
What, was your mountebank their call? their
whistle?

Or were you enamour'd on his copper rings,
His saffron jewel, with the toad-stone in't,
Or his embroider'd suit, with the cope-stitch,
Made of a herse cloth? or his old tilt-feather?
Or his starch'd beard? Well! you shall have
him, yes!

He shall come home, and minister unto you
The fricace for the mother. Or, let me see,
I think you'd rather mount; would you not mount?

whilst he,

With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces,] Dole of faces, is the grimace, or change of features, which accompanied Vol. pone's action. We have a parallel expression in the beginning of Sejanus:

"We have no shift of faces." WHAL.

Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes, truly, you

may:

And so you may be seen, down to the foot.
Get you a cittern, lady Vanity,

And be a dealer with the virtuous man;
Make one: I'll but protest myself a cuckold,
And save your dowry. I'm a Dutchman, I!
For, if you thought me an Italian,

You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you whore!
Thou'dst tremble, to imagine, that the murder
Of father, mother, brother, all thy race,
Should follow, as the subject of my justice.
Cel. Good sir, have patience.

Corv. What couldst thou propose2

Less to thyself, than in this heat of wrath,
And stung with my dishonour, I should strike
This steel into thee, with as many stabs,
As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes?
Cel. Alas, sir, be appeased! I could not think
My being at the window should more now
Move your impatience, than at other times.
Coro. No! not to seek and entertain a parley
With a known knave, before a multitude!
You were an actor with your handkerchief,
Which he most sweetly kist in the receipt,
And might, no doubt, return it with a letter,
And point the place where you might meet;
your sister's,

Your mother's, or your aunt's might serve the turn.
Cel. Why, dear sir, when do I make these ex-

cuses,

Or ever stir abroad, but to the church?

And that so seldom-

2 What couldst thou propose, &c.] This outrageous respect for his honour is an admirable preparation for his conduct in the ensuing conversation with Mosca.

Coro. Well, it shall be less;

And thy restraint before was liberty,

To what I now decree: and therefore mark me.
First, I will have this bawdy light damm'd up;
And till't be done, some two or three yards off,
I'll chalk a line: o'er which if thou but chance
To set thy desperate foot, more hell, more horror,
More wild remorseless rage shall seize on thee,
Than on a conjuror, that had heedless left
His circle's safety ere his devil was laid.
Then here's a lock which I will hang upon thee,
And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards;
Thy lodging shall be backwards; thy walks
backwards;

Thy prospect, all be backwards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backwards: nay, since you force

My honest nature, know, it is your own,
Being too open, makes me use you thus:
Since you will not contain your subtle nostrils
In a sweet room, but they must snuff the air
Of rank and sweaty passengers. [Knocking within.]
-One knocks.

Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life;

Nor look toward the window: if thou dost-Nay, stay, hear this---let me not prosper, whore, But I will make thee an anatomy,

Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lecture Upon thee to the city, and in public.

Away!

Enter Servant.

[Exit Celia.

Who's there?

Ser. 'Tis signior Mosca, sir.

Coro. Let him come in. [Exit Serv.] His master's

dead: there's yet

Some good to help the bad.—

I guess your news.

Enter MOSCA.

My Mosca, welcome!

Mos. I fear you cannot, sir.

Coro. Is't not his death?

Mos. Rather the contrary.

Coro. Not his recovery?
Mos. Yes, sir.

Coro. I am curs'd,

I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me.
How? how? how? how?

Mos. Why, sir, with Scoto's oil;
Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it,
Whilst I was busy in an inner room-

Coro. Death! that damn'd mountebank! but for the law

Now, I could kill the rascal: it cannot be,
His oil should have that virtue. Have not I
Known him a common rogue, come fidling in
To the osteria, with a tumbling whore,
And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been
glad

Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't?
It cannot be. All his ingredients

Are a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow,
Some few sod earwigs, pounded caterpillars,
A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle:
I know them to a dram.

Mos. I know not, sir;

But some on't, there, they pour'd into his ears,

To the osteria,] The inn or hotel. So Fletcher,

"Host. Thy master

That lodges here in my osteria." Fair Maid of the Inn.

WHAL