Volpone - Ben Jonson (best sales books of all time TXT) š
- Author: Ben Jonson
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[ENTER CORVINO.]
COR: Spight oā the devil, and my shame! come down here; Come down;āNo house but mine to make your scene? Signior Flaminio, will you down, sir? down? What, is my wife your Franciscina, sir? No windows on the whole Piazza, here, To make your properties, but mine? but mine? [BEATS AWAY VOLPONE, NANO, ETC.] Heart! ere to-morrow, I shall be new-christenād, And callād the Pantalone di Besogniosi, About the town.
PER: What should this mean, sir Pol?
SIR P: Some trick of state, believe it. I will home.
PER: It may be some design on you:
SIR P: I know not. Iāll stand upon my guard.
PER: It is your best, sir.
SIR P: This three weeks, all my advices, all my letters, They have been intercepted.
PER: Indeed, sir! Best have a care.
SIR P: Nay, so I will.
PER: This knight, I may not lose him, for my mirth, till night.
[EXEUNT.]
SCENE 2.2.
A ROOM IN VOLPONEāS HOUSE.
ENTER VOLPONE AND MOSCA.
VOLP: O, I am wounded!
MOS: Where, sir?
VOLP: Not without; Those blows were nothing: I could bear them ever. But angry Cupid, bolting from her eyes, Hath shot himself into me like a flame; Where, now, he flings about his burning heat, As in a furnace an ambitious fire, Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me. I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca; My liver melts, and I, without the hope Of some soft air, from her refreshing breath, Am but a heap of cinders.
MOS: āLas, good sir, Would you had never seen her!
VOLP: Nay, would thou Hadāst never told me of her!
MOS: Sir ātis true; I do confess I was unfortunate, And you unhappy: but Iām 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 dispair of aught Within a human compass.
VOLP: O, there spoke My better angel. Mosca, take my keys, Gold, plate, and jewels, allās 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.ā 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! [ASIDE.] āand yet I would Escape your Epilogue.
VOLP: But were they gullād With a belief that I was Scoto?
MOS: Sir, Scoto himself could hardly have distinguishād! I have not time to flatter you now; weāll part; And as I prosper, so applaud my art.
[EXEUNT.]
SCENE 2.3.
A ROOM IN CORVINOāS HOUSE.
ENTER CORVINO, WITH HIS SWORD IN HIS HAND, DRAGGING IN CELIA.
CORV: Death of mine honour, with the cityās fool! A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank! And at a public window! where, whilst he, With his strainād 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 enamourād on his copper rings, His saffron jewel, with the toad-stone ināt, Or his embroiderād suit, with the cope-stitch, Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather? Or his starchād 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 youād rather mount; would you not mount? Why, if youāll 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: Iāll but protest myself a cuckold, And save your dowry. Iām a Dutchman, I! For, if you thought me an Italian, You would be damnād, ere you did this, you whore! Thouādst 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 pacience.
CORV: What couldst thou propose 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 gazād upon with goatish eyes?
CEL: Alas, sir, be appeasād! I could not think My being at the window should more now Move your impatience, than at other times.
CORV: 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 sisterās, Your motherās, or your auntās might serve the turn.
CEL: Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses, Or ever stir abroad, but to the church? And that so seldomā
CORV: 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 dammād up; And tillāt be done, some two or three yards off, Iāll chalk a line: oāer 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 conjurer, that had heedless left His circleās safety ere his devil was laid. Then hereās a lock which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think onāt, 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.] āOne knocks. Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Nor look toward the window: if thou dostā Nay, stay, hear thisālet 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! [EXIT CELIA.] [ENTER SERVANT.] Whoās there?
SERV: āTis signior Mosca, sir.
CORV: Let him come in. [EXIT SERVANT.] His masterās dead: Thereās yet Some good to help the bad.ā [ENTER MOSCA.] My Mosca, welcome! I guess your news.
MOS: I fear you cannot, sir.
CORV: Isāt not his death?
MOS: Rather the contrary.
CORV: Not his recovery?
MOS: Yes, sir,
CORV: I am cursād, I am bewitchād, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how?
MOS: Why, sir, with Scotoās oil; Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it, Whilst I was busy in an inner roomā
CORV: Death! that damnād 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 ināt? It cannot be. All his ingredients Are a sheepās gall, a roasted bitchās marrow, Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars, A little caponās grease, and fasting spittle: I know them to a dram.
MOS: I know not, sir, But some onāt, there, they pourād into his ears, Some in his nostrils, and recoverād him; Applying but the fricace.
CORV: Pox oā that fricace.
MOS: And since, to seem the more officious And flattāring 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 flayād ape clappād to his breast, A third would have it a dog, a fourth an oil, With wild catsā 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 to this service, most unhappily, And most unwillingly, am I now employād, Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your advice, since it concerns you most; Because, I would not do that thing might cross Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, sir: Yet, if I do it not, they may delate My slackness to my patron, work me out Of his opinion; and there all your hopes, Ventures, or whatsoever, are all frustrate! I do but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all Now striving, who shall first present him; thereforeā I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat; Prevent them if you can.
CORV: Death to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire Some common courtezan.
MOS: Ay, I thought on that, sir; But they are all so subtle, full of artā And age again doting and flexible, So asāI cannot tellāwe may, perchance, Light on a quean may cheat us all.
CORV: āTis 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? OdsoāThink, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One oā the doctors offerād there his daughter.
CORV: How!
MOS: Yes, signior Lupo, the physician.
CORV: His daughter!
MOS: And a virgin, sir. Why? alas, He knows the state ofās body, what it is; That nought can warm his blood sir, but a fever; Nor any incantation raise his spirit: A long forgetfulness hath seized that part. Besides sir, who shall know it? some one or twoā
CORV: I prithee give me leave. [WALKS ASIDE.] If any man But I had had this luckāThe thing ināt self, I know, is nothingāWherefore should not I As well command my
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