Volpone - Ben Jonson (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗

be my heir: and this makes men observe me: This draws new clients daily, to my house, Women and men of every sex and age, That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, With hope that when I die (which they expect Each greedy minute) it shall then return Ten-fold upon them; whilst some, covetous Above the rest, seek to engross me whole, And counter-work the one unto the other, Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love: All which I suffer, playing with their hopes, And am content to coin them into profit, To look upon their kindness, and take more, And look on that; still bearing them in hand, Letting the cherry knock against their lips, And draw it by their mouths, and back again.— How now!

[RE-ENTER MOSCA WITH NANO, ANDROGYNO, AND CASTRONE.]

NAN: Now, room for fresh gamesters, who do will you to know, They do bring you neither play, nor university show; And therefore do entreat you, that whatsoever they rehearse, May not fare a whit the worse, for the false pace of the verse. If you wonder at this, you will wonder more ere we pass, For know, here is inclosed the soul of Pythagoras, That juggler divine, as hereafter shall follow; Which soul, fast and loose, sir, came first from Apollo, And was breath’d into Aethalides; Mercurius his son, Where it had the gift to remember all that ever was done. From thence it fled forth, and made quick transmigration To goldy-lock’d Euphorbus, who was killed in good fashion, At the siege of old Troy, by the cuckold of Sparta. Hermotimus was next (I find it in my charta) To whom it did pass, where no sooner it was missing But with one Pyrrhus of Delos it learn’d to go a fishing; And thence did it enter the sophist of Greece. From Pythagore, she went into a beautiful piece, Hight Aspasia, the meretrix; and the next toss of her Was again of a whore, she became a philosopher, Crates the cynick, as it self doth relate it: Since kings, knights, and beggars, knaves, lords and fools gat it, Besides, ox and ass, camel, mule, goat, and brock, In all which it hath spoke, as in the cobler’s cock. But I come not here to discourse of that matter, Or his one, two, or three, or his greath oath, BY QUATER! His musics, his trigon, his golden thigh, Or his telling how elements shift, but I Would ask, how of late thou best suffered translation, And shifted thy coat in these days of reformation.

AND: Like one of the reformed, a fool, as you see, Counting all old doctrine heresy.

NAN: But not on thine own forbid meats hast thou ventured?

AND: On fish, when first a Carthusian I enter’d.

NAN: Why, then thy dogmatical silence hath left thee?

AND: Of that an obstreperous lawyer bereft me.

NAN: O wonderful change, when sir lawyer forsook thee! For Pythagore’s sake, what body then took thee?

AND: A good dull mule.

NAN: And how! by that means Thou wert brought to allow of the eating of beans?

AND: Yes.

NAN: But from the mule into whom didst thou pass?

AND: Into a very strange beast, by some writers call’d an ass; By others, a precise, pure, illuminate brother, Of those devour flesh, and sometimes one another; And will drop you forth a libel, or a sanctified lie, Betwixt every spoonful of a nativity pie.

NAN: Now quit thee, for heaven, of that profane nation; And gently report thy next transmigration.

AND: To the same that I am.

NAN: A creature of delight, And, what is more than a fool, an hermaphrodite! Now, prithee, sweet soul, in all thy variation, Which body would’st thou choose, to keep up thy station?

AND: Troth, this I am in: even here would I tarry.

NAN: ‘Cause here the delight of each sex thou canst vary?

AND: Alas, those pleasures be stale and forsaken; No, ‘tis your fool wherewith I am so taken, The only one creature that I can call blessed: For all other forms I have proved most distressed.

NAN: Spoke true, as thou wert in Pythagoras still. This learned opinion we celebrate will, Fellow eunuch, as behoves us, with all our wit and art, To dignify that whereof ourselves are so great and special a part.

VOLP: Now, very, very pretty! Mosca, this Was thy invention?

MOS: If it please my patron, Not else.

VOLP: It doth, good Mosca.

MOS: Then it was, sir.

NANO AND CASTRONE [SING.]: Fools, they are the only nation Worth men’s envy, or admiration: Free from care or sorrow-taking, Selves and others merry making: All they speak or do is sterling. Your fool he is your great man’s darling, And your ladies’ sport and pleasure; Tongue and bauble are his treasure. E’en his face begetteth laughter, And he speaks truth free from slaughter; He’s the grace of every feast, And sometimes the chiefest guest; Hath his trencher and his stool, When wit waits upon the fool: O, who would not be He, he, he?

[KNOCKING WITHOUT.]

VOLP: Who’s that? Away! [EXEUNT NANO AND CASTRONE.] Look, Mosca. Fool, begone! [EXIT ANDROGYNO.]

MOS: ‘Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate; I know him by his knock.

VOLP: Fetch me my gown, My furs and nightcaps; say, my couch is changing, And let him entertain himself awhile Without i’ the gallery. [EXIT MOSCA.] Now, now, my clients Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite, Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey, That think me turning carcase, now they come; I am not for them yet— [RE-ENTER MOSCA, WITH THE GOWN, ETC.] How now! the news?

MOS: A piece of plate, sir.

VOLP: Of what bigness?

MOS: Huge, Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed, And arms engraven.

VOLP: Good! and not a fox Stretch’d on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca?

MOS: Sharp, sir.

VOLP: Give me my furs. [PUTS ON HIS SICK DRESS.] Why dost thou laugh so, man?

MOS: I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend What thoughts he has without now, as he walks: That this might be the last gift he should give; That this would fetch you; if you died to-day, And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow; What large return would come of all his ventures; How he should worship’d be, and reverenced; Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on By herds of fools, and clients; have clear way Made for his mule, as letter’d as himself; Be call’d the great and learned advocate: And then concludes, there’s nought impossible.

VOLP: Yes, to be learned, Mosca.

MOS: O no: rich Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple, So you can hide his two ambitious ears, And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor.

VOLP: My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in.

MOS: Stay, sir, your ointment for your eyes.

VOLP: That’s true; Dispatch, dispatch: I long to have possession Of my new present.

MOS: That, and thousands more, I hope, to see you lord of.

VOLP: Thanks, kind Mosca.

MOS: And that, when I am lost in blended dust, And hundred such as I am, in succession—

VOLP: Nay, that were too much, Mosca.

MOS: You shall live, Still, to delude these harpies.

VOLP: Loving Mosca! ‘Tis well: my pillow now, and let him enter. [EXIT MOSCA.] Now, my fain’d cough, my pthisic, and my gout, My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs, Help, with your forced functions, this my posture, Wherein, this three year, I have milk’d their hopes. He comes; I hear him—Uh! [COUGHING.] uh! uh! uh! O—

[RE-ENTER MOSCA, INTRODUCING VOLTORE, WITH A PIECE OF PLATE.]

MOS: You still are what you were, sir. Only you, Of all the rest, are he commands his love, And you do wisely to preserve it thus, With early visitation, and kind notes Of your good meaning to him, which, I know, Cannot but come most grateful. Patron! sir! Here’s signior Voltore is come—

VOLP [FAINTLY.]: What say you?

MOS: Sir, signior Voltore is come this morning To visit you.

VOLP: I thank him.

MOS: And hath brought A piece of antique plate, bought of St Mark, With which he here presents you.

VOLP: He is welcome. Pray him to come more often.

MOS: Yes.

VOLT: What says he?

MOS: He thanks you, and desires you see him often.

VOLP: Mosca.

MOS: My patron!

VOLP: Bring him near, where is he? I long to feel his hand.

MOS: The plate is here, sir.

VOLT: How fare you, sir?

VOLP: I thank you, signior Voltore; Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.

VOLT [PUTTING IT INTO HIS HANDS.]: I’m sorry, To see you still thus weak.

MOS [ASIDE.]: That he’s not weaker.

VOLP: You are too munificent.

VOLT: No sir; would to heaven, I could as well give health to you, as that plate!

VOLP: You give, sir, what you can: I thank you. Your love Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswer’d: I pray you see me often.

VOLT: Yes, I shall sir.

VOLP: Be not far from me.

MOS: Do you observe that, sir?

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

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

VOLP: I cannot now last long—

MOS: You are his heir, sir.

VOLT: Am I?

VOLP: I feel me going; Uh! uh! uh! uh! I’m sailing to my port, Uh! uh! uh! uh! And I am glad I am so near my haven.

MOS: Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must all go—

VOLT: But, Mosca—

MOS: Age will conquer.

VOLT: ‘Pray thee hear me: Am I inscribed his heir for certain?

MOS: Are you! I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe To write me in your family. All my hopes 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 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!— [LOUD 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 coppy of the will?—Anon!—