Volpone by Ben Jonson (e book reader pc txt) 📖

secret of that high and inestimable nature, shall make you for ever enamour’d on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder conceal’d in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man (which some call life) to the expressing of it. Would I reflect on the price? why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you; it is the powder that made Venus a goddess (given her by Apollo,) that kept her perpetually young, clear’d her wrinkles, firm’d her gums, fill’d her skin, colour’d her hair; from her deriv’d to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the court of France, (but much sophisticated,) wherewith the ladies there, now, colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me; extracted to a quintessence: so that, whereever it but touches, in youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth, did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as ivory, that were black, as—

[ENTER CORVINO.]

COR: Spight o’ the devil, and my shame! come down here; Come down;—No 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-christen’d, And call’d 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. I’ll 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 VOLPONE’S 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: ‘Las, good sir, Would you had never seen her!

VOLP: Nay, would thou Had’st never told me of her!

MOS: Sir ‘tis true; I do confess I was unfortunate, And you unhappy: but I’m 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, all’s 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.— 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.] —and yet I would Escape your Epilogue.

VOLP: But were they gull’d With a belief that I was Scoto?

MOS: Sir, Scoto himself could hardly have distinguish’d! I have not time to flatter you now; we’ll part; And as I prosper, so applaud my art.

[EXEUNT.]

 

SCENE 2.3.

A ROOM IN CORVINO’S HOUSE.

ENTER CORVINO, WITH HIS SWORD IN HIS HAND, DRAGGING IN CELIA.

CORV: Death of mine honour, with the city’s fool! A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank! And at a public window! where, whilst he, With his strain’d 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 enamour’d on his copper rings, His saffron jewel, with the toad-stone in’t, Or his embroider’d suit, with the cope-stitch, Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather? Or his starch’d 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 you’d rather mount; would you not mount? Why, if you’ll 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: I’ll but protest myself a cuckold, And save your dowry. I’m a Dutchman, I! For, if you thought me an Italian, You would be damn’d, ere you did this, you whore! Thou’dst 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 gaz’d upon with goatish eyes?

CEL: Alas, sir, be appeas’d! 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 sister’s, Your mother’s, or your aunt’s 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 seldom—

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 damm’d up; And till’t be done, some two or three yards off, I’ll chalk a line: o’er 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 circle’s safety ere his devil was laid. Then here’s a lock which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think on’t, 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.] —One knocks. Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Nor look toward the window: if thou dost— Nay, stay, hear this—let 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.] Who’s there?

SERV: ‘Tis signior Mosca, sir.

CORV: Let him come in. [EXIT SERVANT.] His master’s dead: There’s yet Some good to help the bad.— [ENTER MOSCA.] My Mosca, welcome! I guess your news.

MOS: I fear you cannot, sir.

CORV: Is’t not his death?

MOS: Rather the contrary.

CORV: Not his recovery?

MOS: Yes, sir,

CORV: I am curs’d, I am bewitch’d, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how?

MOS: Why, sir, with Scoto’s oil; Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it, Whilst I was busy in an inner room—

CORV: Death! that damn’d 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 in’t? It cannot be. All his ingredients Are a sheep’s gall, a roasted bitch’s marrow, Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars, A little capon’s grease, and fasting spittle: I know them to a dram.

MOS: I know not, sir, But some on’t, there, they pour’d into his ears, Some in his nostrils, and recover’d him; Applying but the fricace.

CORV: 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; And to this service, most unhappily, And most unwillingly, am I now employ’d, 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; therefore— 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 art— And age again doting and flexible, So as—I cannot tell—we may, perchance, Light on a quean may cheat us all.

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.

CORV: How!

MOS: Yes, signior Lupo, the physician.

CORV: His daughter!

MOS: And a virgin, sir. Why? alas, He knows the state of’s 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 two—

CORV: I prithee give me leave. [WALKS ASIDE.] If any man But I had had this luck—The thing in’t self, I know, is nothing—Wherefore should not I As well command my