Volpone and Other Plays (8 page)

MOSCA
:                     My patron?

VOLPONE
:                                  Bring him near, where is he?

I long to feel his hand.

MOSCA
:                                   The plate is here, sir.

VOLTORE
: How fare you, sir?

VOLPONE
:                                  I thank you, Signior Voltore.

Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.

VOLTORE
:                                                             I'm sorry

To see you still thus weak.

MOSCA
[
aside
]:                                 That he is not weaker.

VOLPONE
. You are too munificent.

VOLTORE
:                                   No, sir, would to heaven

20        I could as well give health to you as that plate!

VOLPONE
: You give, sir, what you can. I thank you. Your love

              Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswered.

              I pray you see me often.

VOLTORE
:                                  Yes, I shall, sir.

VOLPONE
: Be not far from me.

MOSCA
:                                                Do you observe that, sir?

VOLPONE
: Hearken unto me still; it will concern you.

MOSCA
: You are a happy man, sir; know your good.

VOLPONE
: I cannot now last long –

MOSCA
:       You are his heir, sir.

VOLTORE
: Am I?

VOLPONE
:                I feel me going – uh! uh! uh! uh!

I am sailing to my port – uh! uh! uh! uh!

And I am glad I am so near my haven.

30    
MOSCA
: Alas, kind gentleman. Well, we must all go –

VOLTORE
: But, Mosca –

MOSCA
:                                  Age will conquer.

VOLTORE
:                                                       Pray thee, hear me.

Am I inscribed his heir for certain?

MOSCA
:                                                      Are you?

I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe

To write me i'your family. All my hopes

Depend upon your worship. I am lost

Except the rising sun do shine on me.

VOLTORE
: It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca.

MOSCA
:                                                               Sir,

I am a man that have not done your love

40        All the worst offices. Here I wear your keys,

See all your coffers and your caskets locked,

Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,

Your plate, and moneys; am your steward, sir,

Husband your goods here.

VOLTORE
:                             But am I sole heir?

MOSCA
: Without a partner, sir, confirmed this morning;

The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry

Upon the parchment.

VOLTORE
:       Happy, happy me!

By what good chance, sweet Mosca?

MOSCA
:                                              Your desert, sir;

I know no second cause.

VOLTORE
:       Thy modesty

50        Is loath to know it; well, we shall requite it.

MOSCA
: 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-turn; make knots, and undo them;

Give
forkèd
counsel; take provoking gold

On either hand, and put it up. These men,

60        He knew, would thrive with their humility.

And, for his part, he thought he should be blessed

To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,

So wise, so grave, of so
perplexed
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!

Another knocks
.

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,

70        When you do come to swim in golden lard,

Up to the arms in honey, that your chin

Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood,

Think on your vassal; but remember me:

I ha'not been your worst of clients.

VOLTORE
:                                                     Mosca –

MOSCA
: When will you have your inventory brought, sir?

Or see a copy of the will? – Anon. –

I‘ll bring 'em to you, sir. Away, be gone,

Put business i'your face.

[
Exit
VOLTORE
.]

VOLPONE
:                                 Excellent, Mosca!

Come hither, let me kiss thee.

MOSCA
:                                   Keep you still, sir.

Here is Corbaccio.

80    
VOLPONE
:                                  Set the plate away.

The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come.

I,iv  [
MOSCA
:] Betake you to your silence, and your sleep. –

Stand there and multiply. – 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.

COBBACCIO
:                                   How does your patron?

MOSCA
: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.

CORBACCIO
[
deaf
]:                                   What? mends he?

MOSCA
[
shouting
]: No, sir. He is rather worse.

CORBACCIO
:                                   That's well. Where is he?

MOSCA
: Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep.

10    
CORBACCIO
: Does he sleep well?

MOSCA
:                                   No wink, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday, but slumbers.

CORBACCIO
:                                   Good! He should take

Some counsel of physicians. I have brought him

An opiate here, from mine own doctor –

MOSCA
: He will not hear of drugs.

CORBACCIO
:                                   Why? I myself

Stood by while 't was made, saw all th'ingredients,

And know it cannot but most gently work.

My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.

VOLPONE
[
aside
]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.

MOSCA
:                                                                              Sir,

He has no faith in physic.

CORBACCIO
:       Say you, say you?

20    
MOSCA
: He has no faith in physic: he does think

Most of your doctors are the greater danger,

And worse disease t'escape. I often have

Heard him protest that your physician

Should never be his heir.

CORBACCIO
:                                   Not I his heir?

MOSCA
: Not your physician, sir.

CORBACCIO
:                                  O, no, no, no,

I do not mean it.

MOSCA
:                     No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook; he says they flay a man

Before they kill him.

CORBACCIO
:                     Right, I do conceive you.

MOSCA
: And then, they do it by experiment,

30       For which the law not only doth absolve 'em,

But gives them great reward; and he is loath

To hire his death so.

CORBACCIO
:                                   It is true, they kill

With as much licence as a judge.

MOSCA
:                                                 Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,

And these can kill him too.

CORBACCIO
:                                         Ay, or me,

Or any man. How does his apoplex?

Is that strong on him still?

MOSCA
:                                   Most violent.

His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,

His face drawn longer than 't was wont –

CORBACCIO
:                                   How? how?

Stronger than he was wont?

40    
MOSCA
:                                                No, sir; his face

Drawn longer than 't was wont.

CORBACCIO
:                                               O, good.

MOSCA
:                                                             His mouth

Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.

CORBACCIO
:                                                        Good.

MOSCA
: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints,

And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

CORBACCIO
:                                                'Tis good.

MOSCA
: His pulse beats slow and dull.

CORBACCIO
:                                   Good symptoms still.

MOSCA
: And from his brain –

CORBACCIO
:                                   Ha! how? not from his brain?

MOSCA
: Yes, sir, and from his
brain
–

CORBACCIO
:                                                 I conceive you; good.

MOSCA
: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum,

Forth the resolvèd corners of his eyes.

50    
CORBACCIO
: Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha!

How does he with the swimming of his head?

MOSCA
: 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.

CORBACCIO
: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him!

This makes me young again, a score of years.

MOSCA
: I was a–coming for you, sir.

CORBACCIO
:                                           Has he made his will?

What has he given me?

MOSCA
:                                             No, sir.

CORBACCIO
:                                              Nothing? ha!

MOSCA
: He has not made his will, sir.

CORBACCIO
:                                              Oh, oh, oh.

60        What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here?

MOSCA
: He smelled a carcass, sir, when he but heard

My master was about his testament;