Depend upon your worship: I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.

Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca.
Mos. Sir,

I am a man, that hath not done your love
All the worst offices: here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate and monies; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.

Volt. But am I sole heir?

Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning:

The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.

Volt. Happy, happy, me!

By what good chance, sweet Mosca ?

Mos. Your desert, sir;

I know no second cause.

Volt. Thy modesty

Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it.
Mos. 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-]return; [could]' make knots, and undo
them;

Give forked counsel; take provoking gold

entered in the Household Book: of this practice many proofs yet remain. The conduct of this scene is above all praise.

7 I have ventured to interpolate a word in this verse, which, as it stands in the old copies, is too imperfect to have come from the hands of Jonson. What is added might easily have been lost at the press.

On either hand, and put it up: these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd 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 !-
[Knocking without.

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,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,"
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.
Volt. Mosca !

Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir?

Or see a copy of the Will?--Anon !'-
I'll bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business in your face.

Volp. [springing up.] Excellent

Come hither, let me kiss thee.
Mos. Keep you still, sir.

Here is Corbaccio.

[Exit Voltore. Mosca !

and, gentle sir,

When you do come to swim in golden lard, &c.] Upton was too busy with his trite classical imitations, to notice this bold and beautiful adoption of the eastern metaphor for a state of prosperity.

9 Anon!] In the margin of Whalley's copy, a note in the hand-writing of Mr. Waldron gives this expression to Voltore. It belongs, however, to Mosca, who pretends to speak to some one without, in order to quicken the advocate's departure.

Volp. Set the plate away:

The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come!*
Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your sleep.
Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate to
the rest.] 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.

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: My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. Volp. Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.

[Aside.

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.
Corb. Say you, say you?

Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think
Most of your doctors are the greater danger,
And worse disease, to escape. I often have
Heard him protest, that your physician
Should never be his heir.

Corb. Not I his heir?

Mos. Not your physician, sir.
Corb. O, no, no, no,

I do not mean it.

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man,
Before they kill him.

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 ?
Is that strong on him still?

Mos. Most violent.

His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,
His face drawn longer than 'twas wont-

Corb. How! how!

Stronger than he was wont?

Mos. No, sir: his face

Drawn longer than 'twas wont.
Corb. O, good!

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.
Mos. I was a coming for you, sir.
Corb. Has he made his Will?

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. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. Corb. To be his heir?

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.