Some in his nostrils, and recover'd him; Corv. Pox o' that fricace! Mos. And since, to seem the more officious And flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had, At extreme fees, the college of physicians Consulting on him, how they might restore him ; Where one would have a cataplasm of spices, Another a flay'd ape clapp'd to his breast, A third would have it a dog, a fourth an oil, With wild cats' skins: at last, they all resolved That, to preserve him, was no other means, But some young woman must be straight sought out, Lusty, and full of juice, to sleep by him; And most unwillingly, am I now employ'd, Yet, if I do it not, they may delate* My slackness to my patron, work me out I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat; Coro. Death to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire they may delate My slackness to my patron,] i. e. accuse, or complain of: a vile latinism. "Prevent them," just below, is anticipate them. Mos. Ay, I thought on that, sir; Corv. 'Tis true. Mos. No, no: it must be one that has no tricks, sir, Some simple thing, a creature made unto it ;* Some wench you may command. Have you no kinswoman? Odso-Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One o' the doctors offer'd there his daughter. Mos. Yes, signior Lupo, the physician. Mos. And a virgin, sir. Why, alas, He knows the state of's body, what it is; A long forgetfulness hath seized that part. two Coro. I pray thee give me leave. [walks aside.] any man If But I had had this luck--The thing in't self, I know, is nothing-Wherefore should not I As well command my blood and my affections, As this dull doctor? In the point of honour, The cases are all one of wife and daughter. *A creature made unto it.] See p. 45. 5 That nought can warm his blood, sir, but a fever ;] Præterea minimus gelido jam corpore sanguis Febre calet sola. Juv. Sat. What follows is from the same satire. Mos. I hear him coming." Coro. She shall do't: 'tis done. [Aside. Slight! if this doctor, who is not engaged, Coro. We'll make all sure. The party you wot of Shall be mine own wife, Mosca. Mos. Sir, the thing, But that I would not seem to counsel you, Why, 'tis directly taking a possession! And in his next fit, we may let him go. 'Tis but to pull the pillow from his head, And he is throttled: it had been done before, But for your scrupulous doubts. Coro. Ay, a plague on't, My conscience fools my wit! Well, I'll be brief, And so be thou, lest they should be before us: I hear him coming.] Mosca, who overhears Corvino's last words, speaks this aside; and he means, that he is yielding, or coming into the plot he had laid, to procure his wife for Volpone. So in Eastward Hoe! A. V. "No more; I am coming already: if I should give any further ear, I were taken." 7 Wretch! WHAL. Covetous wretch!] "How finely," " is it says Upton, imagined by our poet, to make Corvino see the basely covetous character of the physician, and yet be so strangely ignorant of his own! This is an instance of our comedian's great insight into the characters of mankind." This is one of ten thousand: but, indeed, no language can do full justice to the various excellencies of this truly attic drama. Go home, prepare him, tell him with what zeal On the first hearing, as thou may'st do, truly, Mos. Sir, I warrant you, I'll so possess him with it, that the rest [Exit. Coro. Where are you, wife? my Celia ! wife! Re-enter CELIA. -What, blubbering? Come, dry those tears. I think thou thought'st me in earnest; Ha! by this light I talk'd so but to try thee: Should have confirm'd thee. Come, I am not jealous. Cel. No! Corv. Faith I am not, I, nor never was; It is a poor unprofitable humour. Do not I know, if women have a will, They'll do 'gainst all the watches of the world, At old Volpone's, where it shall appear How far I am free from jealousy or fear. [Exeunt, ACT III. SCENE I. A Street. Enter Mosca. Mos. I fear, I shall begin to grow in love With my dear self, and my most prosperous parts, They do so spring and burgeon; I can feel A whimsy in my blood: I know not how, Success hath made me wanton. I could skip Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake, I am so limber. O! your parasite Is a most precious thing, dropt from above, I muse, the mystery was not made a science, All the wise world is little else, in nature, I mean not those that have your bare town-art, Make their revenue out of legs and faces," 7 Make their revenue out of legs and faces,] i. e out of bows, and smiles, or rather, perhaps, as Juvenal expresses it, moulding their faces to suit the humour of their patron's-alienum sumere vultum, &c. |