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

I will bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone, Put business in your face.

[EXIT VOLTORE.]

VOLP [SPRINGING UP.]: Excellent Mosca! Come hither, let me kiss thee.

MOS: Keep you still, sir. Here is Corbaccio.

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

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 then 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?

B: 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! But what 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.

CORB: True: I know it too.

MOS [ASIDE.]: By your own scale, sir.

CORB: Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate.

MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir. This is true physic, this your sacred medicine, No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!

CORB: ‘Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

MOS: It shall be minister’d to him, in his bowl.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do.

MOS: Most blessed cordial! This will recover him.

CORB: Yes, do, do, do.

MOS: I think it were not best, sir.

CORB: What?

MOS: To recover him.

CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means.

MOS: Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.

CORB: ‘Tis true, therefore forbear; I’ll take my venture: Give me it again.

MOS: At no hand; pardon me: You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all.

CORB: How?

MOS: All, sir; ‘tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: ‘tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny.

CORB: How, how, good Mosca?

MOS: I’ll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover.

CORB: I do conceive you.

MOS: And, on first advantage Of his gain’d sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament: And shew him this. [POINTING TO THE MONEY.]

CORB: Good, good.

MOS: ‘Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir.

CORB: Yes, with all my heart.

MOS: Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed; There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir.

CORB: And disinherit My son!

MOS: O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking.

CORB: O, but colour?

MOS: This will sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do, Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day’s present, And last, produce your will; where, without thought, Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir: He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, But out of conscience, and mere gratitude—

CORB: He must pronounce me his?

MOS: ‘Tis true.

CORB: This plot Did I think on before.

MOS: I do believe it.

CORB: Do you not believe it?

MOS: Yes, sir.

CORB: Mine own project.

MOS: Which, when he hath done, sir.

CORB: Publish’d me his heir?

MOS: And you so certain to survive him—

CORB: Ay.

MOS: Being so lusty a man—

CORB: ‘Tis true.

MOS: Yes, sir—

CORB: I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts!

MOS: You have not only done yourself a good—

CORB: But multiplied it on my son.

MOS: ‘Tis right, sir.

CORB: Still, my invention.

MOS: ‘Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e’en grow gray withal,) how to work things—

CORB: I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

MOS: You are he, For whom I labour here.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do: I’ll straight about it. [GOING.]

MOS: Rook go with you, raven!

CORB: I know thee honest.

MOS [ASIDE.]: You do lie, sir!

CORB: And—

MOS: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.

CORB: I do not doubt, to be a father to thee.

MOS: Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing.

CORB: I may have my youth restored to me, why not?

MOS: Your worship is a precious ass!

CORB: What say’st thou?

MOS: I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.

CORB: ‘Tis done, ‘tis done, I go. [EXIT.]

VOLP [LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.]: O, I shall burst! Let out my sides, let out my sides—

MOS: Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook.

VOLP: O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

MOS: Alas sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give them words; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence.

VOLP: ‘Tis true, ‘tis true. What a rare punishment Is avarice to itself!

MOS: Ay, with our help, sir.

VOLP: So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call’d on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon’d life! nay, here was one; Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like Aeson, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air! [KNOCKING WITHIN.] Who’s that there, now? a third?

MOS: Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice: It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.

VOLP [LIES DOWN AS BEFORE.]: Dead.

MOS: Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [ANOINTING THEM.] —Who’s there? [ENTER CORVINO.] Signior Corvino! come most wish’d for! O, How happy were you, if you knew it, now!

CORV: Why? what? wherein?

MOS: The tardy hour is come, sir.

CORV: He is not dead?

MOS: Not dead, sir, but as good; He knows no man.

CORV: How shall I do then?

MOS: Why, sir?

CORV: I have brought him here a pearl.

MOS: Perhaps he has So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir: He still calls on you; nothing but your name Is in his mouth: Is your pearl orient, sir?

CORV: Venice was never owner of the like.

VOLP [FAINTLY.]: Signior Corvino.

MOS: Hark.

VOLP: Signior Corvino!

MOS: He calls you; step and give it him.—He’s here, sir, And he has brought you a rich pearl.

CORV: How do you, sir? Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract.

MOS: Sir, He cannot understand, his hearing’s gone; And yet it comforts him to see you—

CORV: Say, I have a diamond for him, too.

MOS: Best shew it, sir; Put it into his hand; ‘tis only there He apprehends: he has his feeling, yet. See how he grasps it!

CORV: ‘Las, good gentleman! How pitiful the sight is!

MOS: Tut! forget, sir. The weeping of an heir should still be laughter Under a visor.

CORV: Why, am I his heir?

MOS: Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will, Till he be dead; but, here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too, I cannot number ‘em, they were so many; All gaping here for legacies: but I, Taking the vantage of his naming you, “Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino,” took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him, Whom he would have his heir? “Corvino.” Who Should be executor? “Corvino.” And, To any question he was silent too, I still interpreted the nods he made, Through weakness, for consent: and sent home th’ others, Nothing bequeath’d them, but to cry and curse.

CORV: O, my dear Mosca! [THEY EMBRACE.] Does he not perceive us?

MOS: No more than a blind harper. He knows no man, No face of friend, nor name of any servant, Who ‘twas that fed him last, or gave him drink: Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, Can he remember.

CORV: Has he children?

MOS: Bastards, Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, Gipsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk. Knew you not that, sir? ‘tis the common fable. The dwarf,