Coro. Well, it shall be less; And thy restraint before was liberty, To what I now decree: and therefore mark me. 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, Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lecture Away! Enter Servant. [Exit Celia. Who's there? Ser. 'Tis signior Mosca, sir. Coro. Let him come in. [Exit Sero.] His master's dead: there's yet Some good to help the bad. Enter MosCA. I guess your news. My Mosca, welcome! Mos. I fear you cannot, sir. Coro. Is't not his death? Mos. Yes, sir. Coro. I am curs'd, I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me. Mos. Why, sir, with Scoto's oil; Coro. Death! that damn'd mountebank! but for the law Now, I could kill the rascal: it cannot be, Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't? Are a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow, Mos. I know not, sir; But some on't, there, they pour'd into his ears, 3 To the osteria,] The inn or hotel. So Fletcher, "Host. Thy master That lodges here in my osteria." Fair Maid of the Inn. W HAL. Some in his nostrils, and recover'd him; Coro. 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; Yet, if I do it not, they may delate* I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat; Corv. Death to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire 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; - So as I cannot tell-we may, perchance, 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.] But I had had this luck-- The thing in't self, * 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! 'Tis but to pull the pillow from his head, And he is throttled: it had been done before, But for your scrupulous doubts. Corv. 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." WHAL. Covetous wretch!] "How finely," says Upton, "is it 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. |