Volpone by Ben Jonson (e book reader pc txt) đ
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MOS: And then to have it ravishâd from their mouths!
VOLP: âTis true. I will have thee put on a gown, And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heir: Shew them a will; Open that chest, and reach Forth one of those that has the blanks; Iâll straight Put in thy name.
MOS [GIVES HIM A PAPER.]: It will be rare, sir.
VOLP: Ay, When they evân gape, and find themselves deludedâ
MOS: Yes.
VOLP: And thou use them scurvily! Dispatch, get on thy gown.
MOS [PUTTING ON A GOWN.]: But, what, sir, if they ask After the body?
VOLP: Say, it was corrupted.
MOS: Iâll say it stunk, sir; and was fain to have it Coffinâd up instantly, and sent away.
VOLP: Any thing; what thou wilt. Hold, hereâs my will. Get thee a cap, a count-book, pen and ink, Papers afore thee; sit as thou wert taking An inventory of parcels: Iâll get up Behind the curtain, on a stool, and hearken; Sometime peep over, see how they do look, With what degrees their blood doth leave their faces, O, âtwill afford me a rare meal of laughter!
MOS [PUTTING ON A CAP, AND SETTING OUT THE TABLE, ETC.]: Your advocate will turn stark dull upon it.
VOLP: It will take off his oratoryâs edge.
MOS: But your clarissimo, old round-back, he Will crump you like a hog-louse, with the touch.
VOLP: And what Corvino?
MOS: O, sir, look for him, To-morrow morning, with a rope and dagger, To visit all the streets; he must run mad. My lady too, that came into the court, To bear false witness for your worshipâ
VOLP: Yes, And kist me âfore the fathers; when my face Flowâd all with oils.
MOS: And sweat, sir. Why, your gold Is such another medâcine, it dries up All those offensive savours: it transforms The most deformed, and restores them lovely, As âtwere the strange poetical girdle. Jove Could not invent tâ himself a shroud more subtle To pass Acrisiusâ guards. It is the thing Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty.
VOLP: I think she loves me.
MOS: Who? the lady, sir? Sheâs jealous of you.
VOLP: Dost thou say so?
[KNOCKING WITHIN.]
MOS: Hark, Thereâs some already.
VOLP: Look.
MOS: It is the Vulture: He has the quickest scent.
VOLP: Iâll to my place, Thou to thy posture.
[GOES BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]
MOS: I am set.
VOLP: But, Mosca, Play the artificer now, torture them rarely.
[ENTER VOLTORE.]
VOLT: How now, my Mosca?
MOS [WRITING.]: âTurkey carpets, nineââ
VOLT: Taking an inventory! that is well.
MOS: âTwo suits of bedding, tissueââ
VOLT: Whereâs the Will? Let me read that the while.
[ENTER SERVANTS, WITH CORBACCIO IN A CHAIR.]
CORB: So, set me down: And get you home.
[EXEUNT SERVANTS.]
VOLT: Is he come now, to trouble us!
MOS: âOf cloth of gold, two moreââ
CORB: Is it done, Mosca?
MOS: âOf several velvets, eightââ
VOLT: I like his care.
CORB: Dost thou not hear?
[ENTER CORVINO.]
CORB: Ha! is the hour come, Mosca?
VOLP [PEEPING OVER THE CURTAIN.]: Ay, now, they muster.
CORV: What does the advocate here, Or this Corbaccio?
CORB: What do these here?
[ENTER LADY POL. WOULD-BE.]
LADY P: Mosca! Is his thread spun?
MOS: âEight chests of linenââ
VOLP: O, My fine dame Would-be, too!
CORV: Mosca, the Will, That I may shew it these, and rid them hence.
MOS: âSix chests of diaper, four of damask.ââThere.
[GIVES THEM THE WILL CARELESSLY, OVER HIS SHOULDER.]
CORB: Is that the will?
MOS: âDown-beds, and bolstersââ
VOLP: Rare! Be busy still. Now they begin to flutter: They never think of me. Look, see, see, see! How their swift eyes run over the long deed, Unto the name, and to the legacies, What is bequeathâd them thereâ
MOS: âTen suits of hangingsââ
VOLP: Ay, in their garters, Mosca. Now their hopes Are at the gasp.
VOLT: Mosca the heir?
CORB: Whatâs that?
VOLP: My advocate is dumb; look to my merchant, He has heard of some strange storm, a ship is lost, He faints; my lady will swoon. Old glazen eyes, He hath not reachâd his despair yet.
CORB [TAKES THE WILL.]: All these Are out of hope: I am sure, the man.
CORV: But, Moscaâ
MOS: âTwo cabinets.â
CORV: Is this in earnest?
MOS: âOne Of ebonyââ
CORV: Or do you but delude me?
MOS: The other, mother of pearlâI am very busy. Good faith, it is a fortune thrown upon meâ âItem, one salt of agateâânot my seeking.
LADY P: Do you hear, sir?
MOS: âA perfumâd boxâââPray you forbear, You see Iâm troubledââmade of an onyxââ
LADY P: How!
MOS: To-morrow or next day, I shall be at leisure To talk with you all.
CORV: Is this my large hopeâs issue?
LADY P: Sir, I must have a fairer answer.
MOS: Madam! Marry, and shall: âpray you, fairly quit my house. Nay, raise no tempest with your looks; but hark you, Remember what your ladyship offerâd me, To put you in an heir; go to, think on it: And what you said eâen your best madams did For maintenance, and why not you? Enough. Go home, and use the poor sir Pol, your knight, well, For fear I tell some riddles; go, be melancholy.
[EXIT LADY WOULD-BE.]
VOLP: O, my fine devil!
CORV: Mosca, âpray you a word.
MOS: Lord! will you not take your dispatch hence yet? Methinks, of all, you should have been the example. Why should you stay here? with what thought? what promise? Hear you; do not you know, I know you an ass, And that you would most fain have been a wittol, If fortune would have let you? that you are A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl, Youâll say, was yours? right: this diamond? Iâll not denyât, but thank you. Much here else? It may be so. Why, think that these good works May help to hide your bad. Iâll not betray you; Although you be but extraordinary, And have it only in title, it sufficeth: Go home, be melancholy too, or mad.
[EXIT CORVINO.]
VOLP: Rare Mosca! how his villany becomes him!
VOLT: Certain he doth delude all these for me.
CORB: Mosca the heir!
VOLP: O, his four eyes have found it.
CORB: I am cozenâd, cheated, by a parasite slave; Harlot, thou hast gullâd me.
MOS: Yes, sir. Stop your mouth, Or I shall draw the only tooth is left. Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch, With the three legs, that, here, in hope of prey, Have, any time this three years, snuffâd about, With your most grovelling nose; and would have hired Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir? Are not you he that have to-day in court Professâd the disinheriting of your son? Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink. If you but croak a syllable, all comes out: Away, and call your porters! [exit corbaccio.] Go, go, stink.
VOLP: Excellent varlet!
VOLT: Now, my faithful Mosca, I find thy constancy.
MOS: Sir!
VOLT: Sincere.
MOS [WRITING.]: âA table Of porphyryââI marle, youâll be thus troublesome.
VOLP: Nay, leave off now, they are gone.
MOS: Why? who are you? What! who did send for you? O, cry you mercy, Reverend sir! Good faith, I am grieved for you, That any chance of mine should thus defeat Your (I must needs say) most deserving travails: But I protest, sir, it was cast upon me, And I could almost wish to be without it, But that the will oâ the dead must be observâd, Marry, my joy is that you need it not, You have a gift, sir, (thank your education,) Will never let you want, while there are men, And malice, to breed causes. Would I had But half the like, for all my fortune, sir! If I have any suits, as I do hope, Things being so easy and direct, I shall not, I will make bold with your obstreperous aid, Conceive me,âfor your fee, sir. In mean time, You that have so much law, I know have the conscience, Not to be covetous of what is mine. Good sir, I thank you for my plate; âtwill help To set up a young man. Good faith, you look As you were costive; best go home and purge, sir.
[EXIT VOLTORE.]
VOLP [COMES FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]: Bid him eat lettuce well. My witty mischief, Let me embrace thee. O that I could now Transform thee to a Venus!âMosca, go, Straight take my habit of clarissimo, And walk the streets; be seen, torment them more: We must pursue, as well as plot. Who would Have lost this feast?
MOS: I doubt it will lose them.
VOLP: O, my recovery shall recover all. That I could now but think on some disguise To meet them in, and ask them questions: How I would vex them still at every turn!
MOS: Sir, I can fit you.
VOLP: Canst thou?
MOS: Yes, I know One oâ the commandadori, sir, so like you; Him will I straight make drunk, and bring you his habit.
VOLP: A rare disguise, and answering thy brain! O, I will be a sharp disease unto them.
MOS: Sir, you must look for cursesâ
VOLP: Till they burst; The Fox fares ever best when he is curst.
[EXEUNT.]
SCENE 5.2.
A HALL IN SIR POLITICKâS HOUSE.
ENTER PEREGRINE DISGUISED, AND THREE MERCHANTS.
PER: Am I enough disguised?
1 MER: I warrant you.
PER: All my ambition is to fright him only.
2 MER: If you could ship him away, âtwere excellent.
3 MER: To Zant, or to Aleppo?
PER: Yes, and have his Adventures put iâ the Book of Voyages. And his gullâd story registerâd for truth. Well, gentlemen, when I am in a while, And that you think us warm in our discourse, Know your approaches.
1 MER: Trust it to our care.
[EXEUNT MERCHANTS.]
[ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]
PER: Save you, fair lady! Is sir Pol within?
WOM: I do not know, sir.
PER: Pray you say unto him, Here is a merchant, upon earnest business, Desires to speak with him.
WOM: I will see, sir. [EXIT.]
PER: Pray you.â I see the family is all female here.
[RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]
WOM: He says, sir, he has weighty affairs of state, That now require him whole; some other time You may possess him.
PER: Pray you say again, If those require him whole, these will exact him, Whereof I bring him tidings. [EXIT WOMAN.] âWhat might be His grave affair of state now! how to make Bolognian sausages here in Venice, sparing One oâ the ingredients?
[RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]
WOM: Sir, he says, he knows By your word âtidings,â that you are no statesman, And therefore wills you stay.
PER: Sweet, pray you return him; I have not read so many proclamations, And studied them for words, as he has doneâ Butâhere he deigns to come.
[EXIT WOMAN.]
[ENTER SIR POLITICK.]
SIR P: Sir, I must crave Your courteous pardon. There hath chanced to-day, Unkind disaster âtwixt my lady and me; And I was penning my apology, To give her satisfaction, as you came now.
PER: Sir, I am grieved I bring you worse disaster: The gentleman you met at the port to-day, That told you, he was newly arrivedâ
SIR P: Ay, was A fugitive punk?
PER: No, sir, a spy set on you; And he has made relation to the senate, That you profest to him to have a plot To sell the State of Venice to the Turk.
SIR P: O me!
PER: For which, warrants are signâd by this time, To apprehend you, and to search your study For papersâ
SIR P: Alas, sir, I have none, but notes Drawn out of play-booksâ
PER: All the
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