GOod morning to the day; and, next, my gold:

Open the shrine, that I may see my saint.

Haile the worlds soule, and mine. More glad then is

The teeming earth, to see the long'd-for Sunne

Peepe through the hornes of the celestiall Ram,

Am I, to view thy splendor, darkening his:

That lying here, amongst my other hoords,

Shew'st like a flame, by night; or like the day

Strooke out of chaos, when all darkenesse fled

Vnto the center. O, thou sonne of SOL,

(But brighter then thy father) let me kisse,

With adoration, thee, and euery relique

Of sacred treasure, in this blessed roome.

Well did wise Poets, by thy glorious name,

Title that age, which they would haue the best;

Thou being the best of things: and far transcending

All stile of ioy, in children, parents, friends,

Or any other waking dreame on earth.

Thy lookes, when they to VENVS did ascribe,

They should haue giu'n her twentie thousand CVPIDS;

Such are thy beauties, and our loues! Deare saint,

Riches, the dumbe god, that giu'st all men tongues:

That canst doe nought, and yet mak'st men doe all things;

The price of soules; euen hell, with thee to boot,

Is made worth heauen! Thou art vertue, fame,

Honour, and all things else! Who can get thee,

He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise——

And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune

A greater good, then wisedome is in nature.

True, my beloued MOSCA. Yet, I glory

More in the cunning purchase of my wealth,

Then in the glad possession; since I gaine

No common way: I vse no trade, no venter;

I wound no earth with plow-shares, I fat no beasts

To feede the shambles; haue no mills for yron,

Oyle, corne, or men, to grinde 'hem into poulder;

I blow no subtill glasse; expose no ships

To threatnings of the furrow-faced sea;

I turne no moneys, in the publike banke;

Nor vsure priuate.

No, sir, nor deuoure

Soft prodigalls. You shall ha' some will swallow

A melting heire, as glibly, as your Dutch

Will pills of butter, and ne're purge for't;

Teare forth the fathers of poore families

Out of their beds, and coffin them, aliue,

In some kind, clasping prison, where their bones

May be forth-comming, when the flesh is rotten:

But your sweet nature doth abhorre these courses;

You lothe, the widdowes, or the orphans teares

Should wash your pauements; or their pittious cryes

Ring in your roofes: and beate the aire, for vengeance.

Right, MOSCA, I doe lothe it.

And besides, sir,

You are not like a thresher, that doth stand

With a huge flaile, watching a heape of corne,

And, hungrie, dares not taste the smallest graine,

But feeds on mallowes, and such bitter herbs;

Nor like the marchant, who hath fill'd his vaults

With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines,

Yet drinkes the lees of Lombards vineger:

You will not lie in straw, whilst moths, and wormes

Feed on your sumptuous hangings, and soft beds.

You know the vse of riches, and dare giue, now,

From that bright heape, to me, your poore obseruer,

Or to your dwarfe, or your hermaphrodite,

Your eunuch, or what other houshold-trifle

Your pleasure allowes maint'nance.——

Hold thee, MOSCA,

Take, of my hand; thou strik'st on truth, in all:

And they are enuious, terme thee parasite.

Call forth my dwarfe, my eunuch, and my foole,

And let 'hem make me sport. What should I doe,

But cocker vp my genius, and liue free

To all delights, my fortune calls me to?

I haue no wife, no parent, child, allie,

To giue my substance to; but whom I make,

Must be my heire: and this makes men obserue me.

This drawes new clients, daily, to my house,

Women, and men, of euery sexe, and age,

That bring me presents, send me plate, coyne, iewels,

With hope, that when I die, (which they expect

Each greedy minute) it shall then returne,

Ten-fold, vpon them; whil'st some, couetous

Aboue the rest, seeke to engrosse me, whole,

And counter worke, the one, vnto the other,

Contend in gifts, as they would seeme, in loue:

All which I suffer, playing with their hopes,

And am content to coyne 'hem into profit,

And looke vpon their kindnesse, and take more,

And looke on that; still bearing them in hand,

Letting the cherry knock against their lips,

And, draw it, by their mouths, and back againe. How now!

Now very, very pretty: MOSCA, this

Was thy inuention?

If it please my patron,

Not else.

It doth, good MOSCA.

Then it was, sir.

Who's that? away, looke MOSCA.

Foole, be gone,

'Tis signior VOLTORE, the Aduocate,

I know him, by his knock.

Fetch me my gowne,

My furres, and night-caps; say, my couch is changing:

And let him entertayne himselfe, awhile,

Without i' th' gallerie. Now, now, my clients

Beginne their visitation! vulture, kite,

Rauen, and gor-crow, all my birds of prey,

That thinke me turning carcasse, now they come:

I am not for 'hem yet. How now? the newes?

A piece of plate, sir.

Of what bignesse?

Huge,

Massie, and antique, with your name inscrib'd,

And armes ingrauen.

Good! and not a foxe

Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusiue sleights,

Mocking a gaping crow? ha, MOSCA?

Sharpe, sir.

Giue me my furres. Why dost thou laugh so, man?

I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend

What thoughts he has (without) now, as he walkes:

That this might be the last gift, he should giue;

That this would fetch you; if you dyed to day,

And gaue him all, what he should be to morrow;

What large returne would come of all his venters;

How he should worship'd be, and reuerenc'd;

Ride, with his furres, and foot-clothes; waited on

By herds of fooles, and clients; haue cleere way

Made for his moyle, as letter'd as himselfe;

Be cald the great, and learned Aduocate:

And then concludes, there's nought impossible.

Yes, to be learned, MOSCA.

O, no: rich

Implies it. Hood an asse, with reuerend purple,

So you can hide his two ambitious eares,

And, he shall passe for a cathedrall Doctor.

My caps, my caps, good MOSCA, fetch him in.

Stay, sir, your ointment for your eyes.

That's true;

Dispatch, dispatch: I long to haue possession

Of my new present.

That, and thousands more,

I hope, to see you lord of.

Thankes, kind MOSCA.

And that, when I am lost in blended dust,

And hundred such, as I am, in succession——

Nay, that were too much, MOSCA.

You shall liue,

Still, to delude these harpyies.

Louing MOSCA,

'Tis well, my pillow now, and let him enter.

Now, my fain'd cough, my phthisick, and my gout,

My apoplexie, palsie, and catarrhes,

Helpe, with your forced functions, this my posture,

Wherein, this three yeere, I haue milk'd their hopes.

He comes, I heare him (vh, vh, vh, vh) Ô.

YOu still are, what you were, sir. Onely you

(Of all the rest) are he, commands his loue:

And you doe wisely, to preserue it, thus,

With early visitation, and kind notes

Of your good meaning to him, which, I know,

Cannot but come most gratefull. Patron, sir.

Here's signior VOLTORE is come——

What say you?

Sir, signior VOLTORE is come, this morning,

To visit you.

I thanke him.

And hath brought

A piece of antique plate, bought of S. MARKE,

With which he here presents you.

He is welcome.

Pray him, to come more often.

Yes.

What sayes he?

He thanks you, and desires you see him often.

MOSCA.

My patron?

Bring him neere, where is he?

I long to feele his hand.

The plate is here, sir.

How fare you, sir?

I thanke you, signior VOLTORE,

Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.

I'm sorry,

To see you still thus weake.

That he is not weaker.

You are too munificent.

No, sir, would to heauen,

I could as well giue health to you, as that plate.

You giue, sir, what you can. I thanke you. Your loue

Hath taste in this, and shall not be vn-answer'd.

I pray you see me often.

Yes, I shall, sir.

Be not far from me.

Doe you obserue that, sir?

Harken vnto me, still: It will concerne you.

You are a happy man, sir, know your good.

I cannot now last long—

You are his heire, sir.

Am I?)

I feele me going, (vh, vh, vh, vh.)

I am sayling to my port, (vh, vh, vh, vh?)

And I am glad, I am so neere my hauen.

Alas, kind gentleman, well, we must all goe—

But, MOSCA—

Age wil conquer.

'Pray thee heare me.

Am I inscrib'd his heire, for certayne?

Are you?

I doe beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe

To write me, i' your family. All my hopes,

Depend vpon your worship. I am lost,

Except the rising sunne doe shine on me.

It shall both shine, and warme thee, MOSCA.

Sir.

I am a man, that haue not done your loue

All the worst offices: here I weare your keyes,

See all your coffers, and your caskets lockt,

Keepe the poore inuentorie of your iewels,

Your plate, and moneyes, am your steward, sir,

Husband your goods here.

But am I sole heire?

Without a partner, sir, confirm'd this morning;

The waxe is warme yet, and the inke scarse drie

Vpon the parchment.

Happy, happy, me!

By what good chance, sweet MOSCA?

Your desert, sir;

I know no second cause.

Thy modestie

Is loth to know it; well, we shall requite it.

He euer lik'd your course, sir, that first tooke him.

I, oft, haue heard him say, how he admir'd

Men of your large profession, that could speake

To euery cause, and things mere contraries,

Till they were hoarse againe, yet all be law;

That, with most quick agilitie, could turne,

And re-turne; make knots, and vndoe them;

Giue forked counsell; take prouoking gold

On either hand, and put it vp: these men,

He knew, would thriue, with their humilitie.

And (for his part) he thought, he should be blest

To haue his heire of such a suffering spirit,

So wise, so graue, of so perplex'd a tongue,

And loud withall, that would not wag, nor scarce

Lie still, without a fee; when euery word

Your worship but lets fall, is a cecchine!

Who's that? one knocks, I would not haue you seene, sir.

And yet—pretend you came, and went in haste;

I'le fashion an excuse. And, gentle sir,

When you doe come to swim, in golden lard,

Vp to the armes, in honny, that your chin

Is borne vp stiffe, with fatnesse of the floud,

Thinke on your vassall; but remember me:

I ha' not beene your worst of clients.

MOSCA—

When will you haue your inuentorie brought, sir?

Or see a coppy of the will? (anon)

I'le bring 'hem to you, sir. Away, be gone,

Put businesse i' your face.

Excellent, MOSCA!

Come hither, let me kisse thee.

Keepe you still, sir.

Here is CORBACCIO.

Set the plate away,

The vulture's gone, and the old rauen's come.

BEtake you, to your silence, and your sleepe:

Stand there, and multiply. Now, shall wee see

A wretch, who is (indeed) more impotent,

Then this can faine to be; yet hopes to hop

Ouer his graue. Signior CORBACCIO!

Yo' are very welcome, sir.

How do's your patron?

Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.

What? mends he?

No, sir: he is rather worse.

That's well. Where is he?

Vpon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleepe.

Do's he sleepe well?

No winke, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday, but slumbers.

Good! He should take

Some counsell of physicians: I haue brought him

An opiate here, from mine owne Doctor——

He will not heare of drugs.

Why? I my selfe

Stood by, while't was made; saw all th'ingredients:

And know, it cannot but most gently worke.

My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleepe.

I, his last sleepe, if he would take it.

Sir,

He ha's no faith in physick.

'Say you? 'say you?

He ha's no faith in physick: he do's thinke,

Most of your Doctors are the greater danger,

And worse disease, t'escape. I often haue

Heard him protest, that your physitian

Should neuer be his heire.

Not I his heire?

Not your physitian, sir.

O, no, no, no,

I doe not meane it.

No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brooke: he sayes, they flay a man,

Before they kill him.

Right, I doe conceiue you.

And then, they doe it by experiment;

For which the law not onely doth absolue 'hem,

But giues them great reward: and, he is loth

To hire his death, so.

It is true, they kill,

With as much licence, as a iudge.

Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemnes,

And these can kill him, too.

I, or me:

Or any man. How do's his apoplexe?

Is that strong on him, still?

Most violent.

His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,

His face drawne longer, then't was wont——

How? how?

Stronger, then he was wont?

No, sir: his face

Drawne longer, then't was wont.

O, good.

His mouth

Is euer gaping, and his eye-lids hang.

Good.

A freezing numnesse stiffens all his ioynts,

And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

'Tis good.

His pulse beats slow, and dull.

Good symptomes, still.

And, from his brain—

Ha? how? not from his brain?

Yes, sir, and from his brain—

I conceiue you, good.)

Flowes a cold sweat, with a continuall rhewme,

Forth the resolued corners of his eyes.

Is't possible? yet I am better, ha!

How do's he, with the swimming of his head?

O, sir, 'tis past, the scotomy; he, now,

Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort:

You hardly can perceiue him, that he breathes.

Excellent, excellent, sure I shall out-last him:

This makes me yong againe, a score of yeeres.

I was a comming for you, sir.

Has he made his will?

What has he giu'n me?

No, sir.

Nothing? ha?

He has not made his will, sir.

Oh, oh, oh.

What then did VOLTORE, the Lawyer, here?

He smelt a carcasse, sir, when he but heard

My master was about his testament;

As I did vrge him to it, for your good——

He came vnto him, did he? I thought so.

Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.

To be his heire?

I doe not know, sir.

True,

I know it too.

By your owne scale, sir.

Well,

I shall preuent him, yet. See, MOSCA, looke,

Here, I haue brought a bag of bright cecchines,

Will quite weigh downe his plate.

Yea, mary, sir!

This is true physick, this your sacred medicine,

No talke of opiates, to this great elixir.

'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowle?

I, doe, doe, doe.

Most blessed cordiall.

This will recouer him.

Yes, doe, doe, doe.

I thinke, it were not best, sir.

What?

To recouer him.

O, no, no, no; by no meanes.

Why, sir, this

Will worke some strange effect, if he but feele it.

'Tis true, therefore forbeare, I'le take my venter:

Giue me't againe.

At no hand, pardon me;

You shall not doe your selfe that wrong, sir. I

Will so aduise you, you shall haue it all.

How?

All, sir, 'tis your right, your owne; no man

Can claime a part: 'tis yours, without a riuall,

Decree'd by destinie.

How? how, good MOSCA?

I'le tell you, sir. This fit he shall recouer;

I doe conceiue you.

And, on first aduantage

Of his gayn'd sense, will I re-importune him

Vnto the making of his testament:

And shew him this.

Good, good.

'Tis better yet,

If you will heare, sir.

Yes, with all my heart.

Now, would I counsell you, make home with speed;

There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe

My master your sole heire.

And disinherit

My sonne?

O, sir, the better: for that colour

Shall make it much more taking.

O, but colour?

This will, sir, you shall send it vnto me.

Now, when I come to inforce (as I will doe)

Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers,

Your more then many gifts, your this dayes present,

And, last, produce your will; where (without thought,

Or least regard, vnto your proper issue,

A sonne so braue, and highly meriting)

The streame of your diuerted loue hath throwne you

Vpon my master, and made him your heire:

He cannot be so stupide, or stone dead,

But, out of conscience, and mere gratitude——

He must pronounce me, his?

'Tis true.

This plot

Did I thinke on before.

I doe beleeue it.

Doe you not beleeue it?

Yes, sir.

Mine owne proiect.

Which when he hath done, sir—

Publish'd me his heire?

And you so certayne, to suruiue him—

I.

Being so lusty a man—

'Tis true.

Yes, sir—

I thought on that too. See, how he should be

The very organ, to expresse my thoughts!

You haue not onely done your selfe a good——

But multiplyed it on my sonne?

'Tis right, sir.

Still, my inuention.

'Lasse sir, heauen knowes,

It hath beene all my studie, all my care,

(I'eene grow grey withall) how to worke things——

I doe conceiue, sweet MOSCA.

You are he,

For whom I labour, here.

I, doe, doe, doe:

I'le straight about it.

Rooke goe with you, rauen.

I know thee honest.

You doe lie, sir—

And—

Your knowledge is no better then your eares, sir.

I doe not doubt, to be a father to thee.

Nor I, to gull my brother of his blessing.

I may ha' my youth restor'd to me, why not?

Your worship is a precious asse—

What say'st thou?

I doe desire your worship, to make haste, sir.

'Tis done, 'tis done, I goe.

O, I shall burst;

Let out my sides, let out my sides——

Contayne

Your fluxe of laughter, sir: you know, this hope

Is such a bait, it couers any hooke.

O, but thy working, and thy placing it!

I cannot hold; good rascall, let me kisse thee:

I neuer knew thee, in so rare a humour.

Alas, sir, I but doe, as I am taught;

Follow your graue instructions; giue 'hem wordes;

Powre oyle into their eares: and send them hence.

'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment

Is auarice, to it selfe?

I, with our helpe, sir.

So many cares, so many maladies,

So many feares attending on old age,

Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish

Can be more frequent with 'hem, their limbs faint,

Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going,

All dead before them; yea, their very teeth,

Their instruments of eating, fayling them:

Yet this is reckon'd life! Nay, here was one,

Is now gone home, that wishes to liue longer!

Feeles not his gout, nor palsie, faines himselfe

Yonger, by scores of yeeres, flatters his age,

With confident belying it, hopes he may

With charmes, like ÆSON, haue his youth restor'd:

And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate

Would be as easily cheated on, as he,

And all turnes aire! Who's that, there, now? a third?

Close, to your couch againe: I heare his voyce.

It is CORVINO, our spruce Merchant.

Dead.

Another bout, sir, with your eyes. Who's there?

SIgnior CORVINO! come most wisht for! O,

How happy were you, if you knew it, now!

Why? what? wherein?

The tardie houre is come, sir.

He is not dead?

Not dead, sir, but as good;

He knowes no man.

How shall I doe, then?

Why, sir?

I haue brought him, here, a pearle.

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 pearle orient, sir?

Venice was neuer owner of the like.

Signior CORVINO.

Harke.

Signior CORVINO.

'He calls you, step and giue it him. H' is here, sir,

And he has brought you a rich pearle.

How doe you, sir?

Tell him, it doubles the twelfe caract.

Sir,

He cannot vnderstand, his hearing's gone;

And yet it comforts him, to see you——

Say,

I haue a diamant for him, too.

Best shew't, sir,

Put it into his hand; 'tis onely there

He apprehends: he has his feeling, yet.

See, how he grasps it!

'Lasse, good gentleman!

How pittifull the sight is!

Tut, forget, sir.

The weeping of an heire should still be laughter,

Vnder a visor.

Why? am I his heire?

Sir, I am sworne, I may not shew the will,

Till he be dead: But, here has beene CORBACCIO,

Here has beene VOLTORE, here were others too,

I cannot number 'hem, they were so many,

All gaping here for legacies; but I,

Taking the vantage of his naming you,

(Signior CORVINO, Signior CORVINO) tooke

Paper, and pen, and inke, and there I ask'd him,

Whom he would haue his heire?

Who

Should be executor?

And,

To any question, he was silent too,

I still interpreted the nods, he made

(Through weakenesse) for consent: and sent home th'others,

Nothing bequeath'd them, but to crie, and curse.

O, my deare MOSCA. Do's he not perceiue vs?

No more then a blind harper. He knowes no man,

No face of friend, nor name of any seruant,

Who't was that fed him last, or gaue him drinke:

Not those, he hath begotten, or brought vp

Can he remember.

Has he children?

Bastards,

Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggers,

Gipseys, and Iewes, and black-moores, when he was drunke.

Knew you not that, sir? 'Tis the common fable.

The Dwarfe, the Foole, the Eunuch are all his;

H' is the true father of his family,

In all, saue me: but he has giu'n 'hem nothing.

That's well, that's well. Art sure he does not heare vs?

Sure, sir? why, looke you, credit your owne sense.

The poxe approch, and adde to your diseases,

If it would send you hence the sooner, sir.

For, your incontinence, it hath deseru'd it

Throughly, and throughly, and the plague to boot.

(You may come neere, sir) would you would once close

Those filthy eyes of yours, that flow with slime,

Like two frog-pits; and those same hanging cheeks,

Couer'd with hide, in stead of skin: (nay, helpe, sir)

That looke like frozen dish-clouts, set on end.

Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the raine

Ran downe in streakes.

Excellent, sir, speake out;

You may be lowder yet: a culuering,

Discharged in his eare, would hardly bore it.

His nose is like a common sewre, still running.

'Tis good! and, what his mouth?

A very draught.

O, stop it vp—

By no meanes.

'Pray you let me.

Faith, I could stifle him, rarely, with a pillow,

As well, as any woman, that should keepe him.

Doe as you will, but I'le be gone.

Be so;

It is your presence makes him last so long.

I pray you, vse no violence.

No, sir? why?

Why should you be thus scrupulous? 'pray you, sir.

Nay, at your discretion.

Well, good sir, be gone.

I will not trouble him now, to take my pearle?

Puh, nor your diamant. What a needlesse care

Is this afflicts you? Is not all, here, yours?

Am not I here? whom you haue made? your creature?

That owe my being to you?

Gratefull MOSCA!

Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion,

My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes.

Excepting one.

What's that?

Your gallant wife, sir.

Now, is he gone: we had no other meanes,

To shoot him hence, but this.

My diuine MOSCA!

Thou hast to day out-gone thy selfe. Who's there?

I will be troubled with no more. Prepare

Me musicke, dances, banquets, all delights;

The Turke is not more sensuall, in his pleasures,

Then will VOLPONE. Let mee see, a pearle?

A diamant? plate? cecchines? good mornings purchase;

Why, this is better then rob churches, yet:

Or fat, by eating (once a mon'th) a man.

Who is't?

The beauteous lady WOVLD-BEE, sir.

Wife, to the English Knight, Sir POLITIQVE WOVLD-BEE,

(This is the stile, sir, is directed mee)

Hath sent to know, how you haue slept to night,

And if you would be visited.

Not, now.

Some three houres, hence——

I told the Squire, so much.

When I am high with mirth, and wine: then, then.

'Fore heauen, I wonder at the desperate valure

Of the bold English, that they dare let loose

Their wiues, to all encounters!

Sir, this knight

Had not his name for nothing, he is politique,

And knowes, how ere his wife affect strange aires,

Shee hath not yet the face, to be dishonest.

But, had shee signior CORVINO'S wiues face——

Has shee so rare a face?

O, sir, the wonder,

The blazing starre of Italie! a wench

O' the first yeere! a beautie, ripe, as haruest!

Whose skin is whiter then a swan, all ouer!

Then siluer, snow, or lillies! a soft lip,

Would tempt you to eternitie of kissing!

And flesh, that melteth, in the touch, to bloud!

Bright as your gold! and louely, as your gold!

Why had not I knowne this, before?

Alas, sir.

My selfe, but yesterday, discouer'd it.

How might I see her?

O, not possible;

Shee's kept as warily, as is your gold:

Neuer do's come abroad, neuer takes ayre,

But at a windore. All her lookes are sweet,

As the first grapes, or cherries: and are watch'd

As neere, as they are.

I must see her——

Sir.

There is a guard, of ten spies thick, vpon her;

All his whole houshold: each of which is set

Vpon his fellow, and haue all their charge,

When he goes out, when he comes in, examin'd.

I will goe see her, though but at her windore.

In some disguise, then.

That is true. I must

Maintayne mine owne shape, still, the same: wee'll thinke.

SIr, to a wise man, all the world's his soile.

It is not Italie, nor France, nor Europe,

That must bound me, if my fates call me forth.

Yet, I protest, it is no salt desire

Of seeing countries, shifting a religion,

Nor any dis-affection to the state

Where I was bred (and, vnto which I owe

My dearest plots) hath brought me out; much lesse,

That idle, antique, stale, grey-headed proiect

Of knowing mens minds, and manners, with VLYSSES:

But, a peculiar humour of my wiues,

Laid for this height of Venice, to obserue,

To quote, to learne the language, and so forth——

I hope you trauell, sir, with licence?

Yes.

I dare the safelier conuerse——How long, sir,

Since you left England?

Seuen weekes.

So lately!

You ha' not beene with my lord Ambassador?

Not yet, sir.

Pray you, what newes, sir, vents our climate?

I heard, last night, a most strange thing reported

By some of my lords followers, and I long

To heare, how't will be seconded!

What was't, sir?

Mary, sir, of a rauen, that should build

In a ship royall of the Kings.

This fellow

Do's he gull me, trow? or is gull'd? your name, sir?

My name is POLITIQVE WOVLD-BEE.

O, that speaks him.

A Knight, sir?

A poore knight, sir.

Your lady

Lies here, in Venice, for intelligence

Of tyres, and fashions, and behauiour,

Among the curtizans? the fine lady WOVLD-BEE?

Yes, sir, the spider, and the bee, oft-times,

Suck from one flowre.

Good sir POLITIQVE!

I cry you mercie; I haue heard much of you:

'Tis true, sir of your rauen.

On your knowledge?

Yes, and your lyons whelping, in the Tower.

Another whelpe!

Another, sir.

Now, heauen!

What prodigies be these? The fires at Berwike!

And the new starre! these things concurring, strange!

And full of omen! Saw you those meteors?

I did, sir.

Fearefull! Pray you sir, confirme me,

Were there three porcpisces seene, aboue the bridge,

As they giue out?

Sixe, and and a sturgeon, sir.

I am astonish'd!

Nay, sir, be not so;

Ile tell you a greater prodigie, then these——

What should these things portend!

The verie day

(Let me be sure) that I put forth from London,

There was a whale discouer'd, in the riuer,

As high as Woolwich, that had waited there

(Few know how manie mon'ths) for the subuersion

Of the Stode-Fleet.

Is't possible? Beleeue it,

'T was either sent from Spaine, or the Arch-dukes!

SPINOLA'S whale, vpon my life, my credit!

Will they not leaue these proiects? Worthie sir,

Some other newes.

Faith, STONE, the foole, is dead;

And they doe lacke a tauerne-foole, extremely.

Is MASS' STONE dead!

H'is dead, sir, why? I hope

You thought him not immortall? O, this Knight

(Were he well knowne) would be a precious thing

To fit our English stage: He that should write

But such a fellow, should be thought to faine

Extremely, if not maliciously.

STONE dead!

Dead. Lord! how deeply, sir, you apprehend it?

He was no kinsman to you?

That I know of.

Well! that same fellow was an vnknowne foole.

And yet you knew him, it seemes?

I did so. Sir,

I knew him one of the most dangerous heads

Liuing within the state, and so I held him.

Indeed, sir?

While he liu'd, in action.

He has receiu'd weekely intelligence,

Vpon my knowledge, out of the low Countries,

(For all parts of the world) in cabages;

And those dispens'd, againe, to' Ambassadors,

In oranges, musk-melons, apricotes,

Limons, pome-citrons, and such like: sometimes,

In Colchester-oysters, and your Selsey-cockles.

You make me wonder!

Sir, vpon my knowledge.

Nay, I haue obseru'd him, at your publique ordinarie,

Take his aduertisement, from a traueller

(A conceal'd states-man) in a trencher of meat;

And, instantly, before the meale was done,

Conuey an answere in a tooth-pick.

Strange!

How could this be, sir?

Why, the meat was cut

So like his character, and so laid, as he

Must easily reade the cypher.

I haue heard,

He could not reade, sir.

So, 'twas giuen out,

(In politie) by those, that did imploy him:

But he could read, and had your languages,

And to't, as sound a noddle——

I haue heard, sir,

That your Babiouns were spies; and that they were

A kind of subtle nation, neere to China.

I, I, your Mamuluchi. Faith, they had

Their hand in a French plot, or two; but they

Were so extremely giuen to women, as

They made discouery of all: yet I

Had my aduices here (on wensday last)

From one of their owne coat, they were return'd,

Made their relations (as the fashion is)

And now stand faire, for fresh imployment.

'Hart!

This, sir POLL: will be ignorant of nothing.

It seemes, sir, you know all?

Not all, sir. But,

I haue some generall notions; I doe loue

To note, and to obserue: though I liue out,

Free from the actiue torrent, yet I'ld marke

The currents, and the passages of things,

For mine owne priuate vse; and know the ebbes,

And flowes of state.

Beleeue it, sir, I hold

My selfe, in no small tie, vnto my fortunes,

For casting me thus luckily, vpon you;

Whose knowledge (if your bountie equall it)

May doe me great assistance, in instruction

For my behauiour, and my bearing, which

Is yet so rude, and raw—

Why? came you forth

Emptie of rules, for trauaile?

Faith, I had

Some common ones, from out that vulgar grammar,

Which he, that cry'd Italian to me, taught me.

Why, this it is, that spoiles all our braue blouds,

Trusting our hopefull gentrie vnto pedants,

Fellowes of out-side, and mere barke. You seeme

To be a gentleman, of ingenuous race——

I not professe it, but my fate hath beene

To be, where I haue beene consulted with,

In this high kind, touching some great mens sonnes,

Persons of bloud, and honour——

Who be these, sir?

VNder that windore, there't must be. The same.

Fellowes, to mount a banke! Did your instructer

In the deare tongues, neuer discourse to you

Of the Italian mountebankes?

Yes, sir.

Why,

Here shall you see one.

They are quack-saluers,

Fellowes, that liue by venting oyles, and drugs?

Was that the character he gaue you of them?

As I remember.

Pitie his ignorance.

They are the onely-knowing men of Europe!

Great generall schollers, excellent phisicians,

Most admir'd states-men, profest fauourites,

And cabinet-counsellors, to the greatest princes!

The onely languag'd-men, of all the world!

And, I haue heard, they are most lewd impostors;

Made all of termes, and shreds; no lesse belyers

Of great-mens fauours, then their owne vile med'cines;

Which they will vtter, vpon monstrous othes:

Selling that drug, for two pence, ere they part,

Which they haue valu'd at twelue crownes, before.

Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence:

Your selfe shall iudge. Who is it mounts, my friends?

SCOTO of Mantua, sir.

Is't he? nay, then

I'le proudly promise, sir, you shall behold

Another man, then has beene phant'sied to you.

I wonder, yet, that he should mount his banke

Here, in this nooke, that has beene wont t'appeare

In face of the piazza! Here, he comes.

Mount, Zany.

Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow.

See how the people follow him! h' is a man

May write 10000 crownes, in banke, here. Note,

Marke but his gesture: I doe vse to obserue

The state he keeps, in getting vp!

'Tis worth it, sir.

Most noble gent: and my worthy patrons, it may seeme strange, that

I, your SCOTO MANTVANO, who was euer wont to fixe my banke in face of

the publike piazza, neere the shelter of the portico, to the procuratia , should,

now (after eight months absence, from this illustrous city of Venice) humbly re-

tire my selfe, into an obscure nooke of the piazza.

Did not I, now, obiect the same?

Peace, sir.

Let me tell you: I am not (as your Lombard prouerb saith) cold on

my feet; or content to part with my commodities at a cheaper rate, then I accusto-

med: looke not for it. Nor, that the calumnious reports of that impudent detra-

ctor, and shame to our profession, (ALESSANDRO BVTTONE, I meane) who

gaue out, in publike, I was condemn'd a' Sforzato to the galleys, for poyso-

ning the Cardinall BEMBO'S—Cooke, hath at all attached, much lesse deiected

me. No, no, worthy gent. (to tell you true) I cannot indure, to see the rabble of

these ground Ciarlitani, that spread their clokes on the pauement, as if they

meant to do feates of actiuitie, and then come in, lamely, with their mouldy tales out

of BOCCACIO, like stale TABARINE, the Fabulist: some of them discoursing

their trauells, and of their tedious captiuity in the Turkes galleyes, when indeed

(were the truth knowne) they were the Christians galleyes, where very temperate-

ly, they eate bread, and drunke water, as a wholesome penance (enioyn'd them by

their Confessors) for base pilferies.

Note but his bearing, and contempt of these.

These turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousy-farticall--rogues, with one poore

groats-worth of vn-prepar'd antimony, finely wrapt vp in seuerall'scartoc-

cios, are able, very well, to kill their twentie a weeke, and play; yet, these meagre

staru'd spirits, who haue halfe stopt the organs of their mindes with earthy oppila-

tions, want not their fauourers among your shriuel'd, sallad eating artizans: who

are ouer-ioy'd, that they may haue their halfe-pe'rth of physick, though it purge

'hem into another world,'t makes no matter.

Excellent! ha' you heard better language, sir?

Well, let' hem goe. And gentlemen, honorable gentlemen, know, that

for this time, our banke, being thus remou'd from the clamours of thecana-

glia, shall be the scene of pleasure and delight: For, I haue nothing to sell, little,

or nothing to sell.

I told you, sir, his end.

You did so, sir.

I protest, I, and my sixe seruants, are not able to make of this precious

liquor, so fast, as it is fetch'd away from my lodging, by gentlemen of your city;

strangers of the terra-ferma ; worshipfull merchants; I, and senators too: who,

euer since my arriuall, haue detayned me to their vses, by their splendidous libera-

lities. And worthily. For, what auailes your rich man to haue his magazines

stuft with moscadelli, or of the purest grape, when his physitians prescribe him

(on paine of death) to drinke nothing but water, cocted with anise-seeds? O,

health! health! the blessing of the rich! the riches of the poore! who can buy thee

at too deare a rate, since there is no enioying this world, without thee? Be not then

so sparing of your purses, honorable gentlemen, as to abridge the naturall course

of life——

You see his end?

I, is't not good?

For, when a humide fluxe, or catarrhe, by the mutability of aire, falls

from your head, into an arme, or shoulder, or any other part; take you a duckat,

or your cecchine of gold, and apply to the place affected: see, what good effect it

can worke. No, no, 'tis this blessed vnguento, this rare extraction, that hath only

power to disperse all malignant humours, that proceed, either of hot, cold, moist,

or windy causes——

I would he had put in drie to.

'Pray you, obserue.

To fortifie the most indigest, and crude stomack, I, were it of one, that

(through extreme weakenesse) vomited bloud, applying only a warme napkin to

the place, after the vnction, and fricace; for the vertigine, in the head, putting

but a drop into your nostrills, likewise, behind the eares; a most soueraigne, and

approued remedie: the mal-caduco, crampes, conuulsions, paralysies, epi-

lepsies, tremor-cordia, retyred-nerues, ill vapours of the spleene, stoppings

of the liuer, the stone, the strangury, hernia ventosa, iliaca passio; stops a

disenteria, immediately; easeth the torsion of the small guts; and curesme-

lancolia hypocondriaca, being taken and applyed, according to my printed re-

ceipt. For, this is the physitian, this the medicine; this counsells, this cures; this

giues the direction, this workes the effect: and (in summe) both together may bee

term'd an abstract of the theorick, and practick in the Æsculapian arte. 'Twill

cost you eight crownes. And, ZAN FRITADA, 'pray thee sing a verse, ex-

tempore, in honour of it.

How doe you like him, sir?

Most strangely, I!

Is not his language rare?

But Alchimy

I neuer heard the like: or BROVGHTONS bookes.

All this, yet, will not doe, eight crownes is high.

No more. Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse to you the miracu-

lous effects of this my oile, surnamed oglio del SCOTO; with the count-lesse

catalogue of those I haue cured of th' aforesaid, and many more diseases; the pat-

tents and priuiledges of all the Princes, and common-wealths of Christendome;

or but the depositions of those that appear'd on my part, before the signiory of the

Sanitâ, and most learned colledge of physitians; where I was authorized, vpon

notice taken of the admirable vertues of my medicaments, and mine owne excel-

lency, in matter of rare, and vnknowne secrets, not onely to disperse them pub-

liquely in this famous citie, but in all the territories, that happily ioy vnder the

gouernement of the most pious and magnificent states of Italy. But may some

other gallant fellow say, O, there be diuers, that make profession to haue as good,

and as experimented receipts, as yours: Indeed, very many haue assay'd, like

apes in imitation of that, which is really and essentially in mee, to make of this

oyle; bestow'd great cost in furnaces, stilles, alembeks, continuall fires, and prepara-

tion of the ingredients, (as indeede there goes to it sixe hundred seuerall simples, be-

sides, some quantity of humane fat, for the conglutination, which we buy of the

anatomistes) but, when these practitioners come to the last decoction, blow, blow,

puff, puff, and all flies in fumo: ha, ha, ha. Poore wretches! I rather pit-

tie their folly, and indiscretion, then their losse of time, and money; for those

may be recouered by industrie: but to bee a foole borne, is a disease incurable.

For my selfe, I alwaies from my youth haue indeuour'd to get the rarest secrets,

and booke them; either in exchange, or for money: I spared nor cost, nor labour,

where any thing was worthy to bee learned. And gentlemen, honourable gen-

tlemen, I will vndertake (by vertue of chymicall art) out of the honourable hat,

that couers your head, to extract the foure elements; that is to say, the fire, ayre,

water, and earth, and returne you your felt without burne, or staine. For,

whil'st others haue beene at the balloo, I haue beene at my booke: and am now

past the craggie pathes of studie, and come to the flowrie plaines of honour, and re-

putation.

I doe assure you, sir, that is his ayme.

But, to our price.

And that withall, sir POL.

You all know (honour able gentlemen) I neuer valu'd this ampulla,

or viall, at lesse then eight crownes, but for this time, I am content, to be depriu'd

of it for sixe; sixe crownes is the price; and lesse in courtesie, I know you cannot

offer me: take it, or leaue it, howsoeuer, both it, and I, am at your seruice. I aske

you not, as the value of the thing, for then I should demand of you a thousand

crownes, so the Cardinals MONTALTO, FERNESE, the great duke ofTusca-

ny, my gossip, with diuers other princes haue giuen me, but I despise money: onely

to shew my affection to you, honourable gentlemen, and your illustrous state here,

I haue neglected the messages of these princes, mine owne offices, fram'd my

iourney hither, onely to present you with the fruits of my trauels. Tune your voi-

ces once more to the touch of your instruments, and giue the honourable assembly

some delightfull recreation.

What monstrous, and most painefull circumstance

Is here, to get some three, or foure gazets!

Some three-pence, i'th whole, for that 'twill come to.

Well, I am in a humour (at this time) to make a present of the small

quantitie my coffer containes: to the rich, in courtesie, and to the poore, for Gods

sake. Wherefore, now marke; I ask'd you sixe crownes; and sixe crownes, at o-

ther times, you haue paid me; you shall not giue me sixe crownes, nor fiue, nor

foure, nor three, nor two, nor one; nor halfe a duckat; no, nor a muccinigo:

sixe—pence it will cost you, or sixe hundred pound—expect no lower price, for by

the banner of my front, I will not bate a bagatine, that I will haue, only, a pledge

of your loues, to carry something from amongst you, to shew, I am not contemn'd

by you. Therefore, now, tosse your handkerchiefes, chearefully, chearefully; and

be aduertised, that the first heroique spirit, that deignes to grace me, with a hand-

kerchiefe, I will giue it a little remembrance of something, beside, shall please it

better, then if I had presented it with a double pistolet.

Will you be that heroique sparke, sir POL?

O, see! the windore has preuented you.

Lady, I kisse your bountie: and, for this timely grace, you haue done

your poore SCOTO of Mantua, I will returne you, ouer and aboue my oile, a

secret, of that high, and inestimable nature, shall make you for euer enamour'd

on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so meane, (yet not altogether

to be despis'd) an obiect. Here is a poulder, conceal'd in this paper, of which, if I

should speake 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

were but as an empire, that empire as a prouince, that prouince as a banke, that

banke as a priuate purse, to the purchase of it. I will, onely, tell you; It is the

poulder, that made VENVS a goddesse (giuen her by APOLLO) that kept her

perpetually yong, clear'd her wrincles, firm'd her gummes, fill'd her skin, colour'd

her haire; from her, deriu'd to HELEN, and at the sack of Troy (vnfortunate-

ly) lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recouer'd, by a studious Anti-

quarie, out of some ruines of Asia, who sent a moyetie of it, to the court of

France (but much sophisticated) wherewith the ladies there, now, colour their

haire. The rest (at this present) remaines with me; extracted, to a quintessence:

so that, where euer it but touches, in youth it perpetually preserues, in age restores

the complexion; seat's your teeth, did they dance like virginall iacks, firme as a

wall; makes them white, as iuory, that were black, as——

SPight o'the deuill, and my shame! come downe, here;

Come downe: no house but mine to make your scene?

Signior FLAMINIO, will you downe, sir? downe?

What is my wife your FRANCISCINA? sir?

No windores on the whole Piazza, here,

To make your properties, but mine? but mine?

Hart! ere to morrow, I shall be new christen'd,

And cald the PANTALONE DI BESOGNIOSI,

About the towne.

What should this meane, sir POL?

Some trick of state, beleeue it. I will home.

It may be some designe, on you.

I know not.

I'le stand vpon my guard.

'Tis your best, sir.

This three weekes, all my aduises, all my letters,

They haue beene intercepted.

Indeed, sir?

Best haue a care.

Nay, so I will.

This knight,

I may not lose him, for my mirth, till night.

O, I am wounded.

Where, sir?

Not without;

Those blowes were nothing: I could beare them euer.

But angry CVPID, bolting from her eyes,

Hath shot him selfe into me, like a flame;

Where, now, he flings about his burning heat,

As in a fornace, some ambitious fire,

Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me.

I cannot liue, except thou helpe me, MOSCA;

My liuer melts, and I, without the hope

Of some soft aire, from her refreshing breath,

Am but a heape of cinders.

'Lasse, good sir,

Would you had neuer seene her.

Nay, would thou

Had'st neuer told me of her.

Sir, 'tis true;

I doe confesse, I was vnfortunate,

And you vnhappy: but I'am bound in conscience,

No lesse then duty, to effect my best

To your release of torment, and I will, sir.

Deare MOSCA, shall I hope?

Sir, more then deare,

I will not bid you to despaire of ought,

Within a humane compasse.

O, there spoke

My better Angell. MOSCA, take my keyes,

Gold, plate, and iewells, all's at thy deuotion;

Employ them, how thou wilt; nay, coyne me, too:

So thou, in this, but crowne my longings. MOSCA?

Vse but your patience.

So I haue.

I doubt not

To bring successe to your desires.

Nay, then,

I not repent me of my late disguise.

If you can horne him, sir, you need not.

True:

Besides, I neuer meant him for my heire.

Is not the colour of o' my beard, and eye-browes,

To make me knowne?

No iot.

I did it well.

So well, would I could follow you in mine,

With halfe the happinesse; and, yet, I would

Escape your epilogue.

But, were they gull'd

With a beliefe, that I was SCOTO?

Sir,

SCOTO himselfe could hardly haue distinguish'd!

I haue not time to flatter you, now, wee'll part:

And, as I prosper, so applaud my art.

DEath of mine honour, with the cities foole?

A iuggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebanke?

And, at a publike windore? where whil'st he,

With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces,

To his drug-lecture drawes your itching eares,

A crue of old, vn-marri'd, noted lechers,

Stood leering vp, like Satyres: and you smile,

Most graciously! and fan your fauours forth,

To giue your hot spectators satisfaction!

What, was your mountebanke their call? their whistle?

Or were you' enamour'd on his copper rings?

His saffron iewell, with the toade-stone in't?

Or his imbroidred sute, with the cope-stitch,

Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather?

Or his starch'd beard? well! you shall haue him, yes.

He shall come home, and minister vnto you

The fricace, for the moother. Or, let me see,

I thinke, you'had rather mount? would you not mount?

Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truely, you may:

And so, you may be seene, downe to' th'foot.

Get you a citterne, lady vanitie,

And be a dealer, with the vertuous man;

Make one: I'le but protest my selfe a cuckold,

And saue your dowrie. I am a Dutchman, I!

For, if you thought me an Italian,

You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you whore:

Thou'ldst tremble, to imagine, that the murder

Of father, mother, brother, all thy race,

Should follow, as the subiect of my iustice!

Good sir, haue patience!

What coul'dst thou propose

Lesse to thy selfe, then, in this heat of wrath,

And stung with my dishonour, I should strike

This steele vnto thee, with as many stabs,

As thou wert gaz'd vpon with goatish eyes?

Alasse sir, be appeas'd! I could not thinke

My being at the windore should more, now,

Moue your impatience, then at other times.

No? not to seeke, and entertaine a parlee,

With a knowne knaue? before a multitude?

You were an actor, with your handkerchiefe!

Which he, most sweetly, kist in the receipt,

And might (no doubt) returne it, with a letter,

And point the place, where you might meet: your sisters,

Your mothers, or your aunts might serue the turne.

Why, deare sir, when doe I make these excuses?

Or euer stirre, abroad, but to the church?

And that, so seldome——

Well, it shall be lesse;

And thy restraint, before, was libertie,

To what I now decree: and therefore, marke me.

First, I will haue this bawdy light dam'd vp;

And, til't be done, some two, or three yards off,

I'le chalke a line: o're which, if thou but chance

To set thy desp'rate foot; more hell, more horror,

More wilde, remorcelesse rage shall seize on thee,

Then on a coniurer, that, had heedlesse left

His circles safetie, ere his deuill was laid.

Then, here's a locke, which I will hang vpon thee;

And, now I thinke on't, I will keepe thee backe-wards;

Thy lodging shall be backe-wards; thy walkes back-wards;

Thy prospect-all be backe-wards; and no pleasure,

That thou shalt know but backe-wards: Nay, since you force

My honest nature, know, it is your owne

Being too open, makes me vse you thus.

Since you will not containe your subtle nostrils

In a sweet roome, but they must snuffe the ayre

Of ranke, and sweatie passengers——One knockes.

Away, and be not seene, paine of thy life;

Not looke toward the windore: if thou dost——

(Nay stay, heare this) let me not prosper, whore,

But I will make thee an anatomie,

Dissect thee mine owne selfe, and read a lecture

Vpon thee, to the citie, and in publique.

Away. Who's there?

'Tis signior MOSCA, sir.

LEt him come in, his master's dead:

There's yet Some good, to helpe the bad.

My MOSCA, welcome, I ghesse your newes.

I feare you cannot, sir.

Is't not his death?

Rather the contrarie.

Not his recouerie?

Yes, sir,

I am curst,

I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me.

How? how? how? how?

Why, sir, with SCOTO's oyle!

CORBACCIO, and VOLTORE brought of it,

Whil'st I was busie in an inner roome——

Death! that damn'd mountebanke! but, for the law,

Now, I could kill the raskall: 't cannot be,

His oyle should haue that vertue. Ha'not I

Knowne him a common rogue, come fidling in

To th' osteria, with a tumbling whore,

And, when he ha's done all his forc'd trickes, beene glad

Of a poore spoonefull of dead wine, with flyes in't?

It cannot be. All his ingredients

Are a sheepes gall, a rosted bitches marrow,

Some few sod earewigs, pounded caterpillers,

A little capons grease, and fasting spittle:

I know'hem, to a dram.

I know not, sir,

But some on't, there they powr'd into his eares,

Some in his nostrils, and recouer'd him;

Applying but the fricace.

Pox o' that fricace.

And since, to seeme the more officious,

And flatt'ring of his health, there, they haue had

(At extreme fees) the colledge of physicians

Consulting on him, how they might restore him;

Where, one would haue a cataplasme of spices,

Another, a flayd ape clapt to his brest,

A third would ha'it a dogge, a fourth an oyle

With wild cats skinnes: at last, they all resolu'd

That, to preserue him, was no other meanes,

But some yong woman must be streight sought out,

Lustie, and full of iuice, to sleepe by him;

And, to this seruice (most vnhappily,

And most vnwillingly) am I now imploy'd,

Which, here, I thought to pre-acquaint you with,

For your aduice, since it concernes you most,

Because, I would not doe that thing might crosse

Your ends, on whom I haue my whole dependance, sir:

Yet, if I doe it not, they may delate

My slacknesse to my patron, worke me out

Of his opinion; and there, all your hopes,

Venters, or whatsoeuer, are all frustrate.

I doe but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all

Now striuing, who shall first present him. Therefore—

I could intreat you, briefly, conclude some-what:

Preuent'hem if you can.

Death to my hopes!

This is my villanous fortune! Best to hire

Some common curtezan?

I, I thought on that, sir.

But they are all so subtle, full of art,

And age againe doting, and flexible,

So as——I cannot tell——we may perchance

Light on a queane, may cheat vs all.

'Tis true.

No, no: it must be one, that ha's no trickes, sir,

Some simple thing, a creature, made vnto it;

Some wench you may command. Ha' you no kinswoman?

Gods so—Thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, sir.

One o'the Doctors offer'd, there, his daughter.

How!

Yes, signior LVPO, the physician,

His daughter?

And a virgin, sir. Why? Alasse

He knowes the state of's bodie, what it is;

That nought can warme his bloud, sir, but a feuer;

Nor any incantation rayse his spirit:

A long forgetfulnesse hath seiz'd that part.

Besides, sir, who shall know it? some one, or two——

I pray thee giue me leaue. If any man

But I had had this lucke—The thing in't selfe,

I know, is nothing—Wherefore should not I

As well command my bloud, and my affections,

As this dull Doctor? In the point of honour,

The cases are all one, of wife, and daughter.

I heare him comming.

Shee shall doo't: 'Tis done.

Slight, if this Doctor, who is not engag'd,

Vnlesse't be for his counsell (which is nothing)

Offer his daughter, what should I, that am

So deeply in? I will preuent him, wretch!

Couetous wretch! MOSCA, I haue determin'd.

How, sir?

We'll make all sure. The party, you wot of,

Shall be mine owne wife, MOSCA.

Sir. The thing,

(But that I would not seeme to counsell you)

I should haue motion'd to you, at the first:

And, make your count, you haue cut all their throtes.

Why! 'tis directly taking a possession!

And, in his next fit, we may let him goe.

'Tis but to pull the pillow, from his head,

And he is thratled: 't had beene done, before,

But for your scrupulous doubts.

I, a plague on't,

My conscience fooles my wit. Well, I'le be briefe,

And so be thou, lest they should be before vs:

Goe home, prepare him, tell him, with what zeale,

And willingnesse, I doe it; sweare it was,

On the first hearing (as thou maist doe, truely)

Mine owne free motion.

Sir, I warrant you,

I'le so possesse him with it, that the rest

Of his staru'd clients shall be banisht, all;

And onely you receiu'd. But come not, sir,

Vntill I send, for I haue some-thing else

To ripen, for your good (you must not know't)

But doe not you forget to send, now.

Feare not.

VVHere are you, wife? my CELIA? wife? what, blubbering?

Come, drie those teares. I thinke, thou thought'st me in earnest?

Ha? by this light, I talk'd so but to trie thee.

Me thinkes, the lightnesse of the occasion

Should ha' confirm'd thee. Come, I am not iealous.

NO?

Faith, I am not I, nor neuer was:

It is a poore, vnprofitable humour.

Doe not I know, if women haue a will,

They'll doe 'gainst all the watches, o' the world?

And that the fiercest spies, are tam'd with gold?

Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't:

And see, I'le giue thee cause too, to beleeue it.

Come, kisse me. Goe, and make thee ready straight,

In all thy best attire, thy choicest iewells,

Put 'hem all on, and, with 'hem, thy best lookes:

We are inuited to a solemne feast,

At old VOLPONE'S, where it shall appeare

How far I am free, from iealousie, or feare.

I Feare, I shall begin to grow in loue

With my deare selfe, and my most prosp'rous parts,

They doe so spring, and burgeon; I can feele

A whimsey i' my bloud: (I know not how)

Successe hath made me wanton. I could skip

Out of my skin, now, like a subtill snake,

I am so limber. O! Your Parasite

Is a most precious thing, dropt from aboue,

Not bred 'mong'st clods, and clot-poules, here on earth.

I muse, the mysterie was not made a science,

It is so liberally profest! almost

All the wise world is little else, in nature,

But Parasites, or Sub-parasites. And, yet,

I meane not those, that haue your bare towne-arte,

To know, who's fit to feede 'hem; haue no house,

No family, no care, and therefore mould

Tales for mens eares, to bait that sense; or get

Kitchin-inuention, and some stale receipts

To please the belly, and the groine; nor those,

With their court-dog-tricks, that can fawne, and fleere,

Make their reuennue out of legs, and faces,

Eccho my-Lord, and lick away a moath:

But your fine, elegant rascall, that can rise,

And stoope (almost together) like an arrow;

Shoot through the aire, as nimbly as a starre;

Turne short, as doth a swallow; and be here,

And there, and here, and yonder, all at once;

Present to any humour, all occasion;

And change a visor, swifter, then a thought!

This is the creature, had the art borne with him;

Toiles not to learne it, but doth practise it

Out of most excellent nature: and such sparkes,

Are the true Parasites, others but their Zani's.

VVHo's this? BONARIO? old CORBACCIO'S sonne?

The person I was bound to seeke. Faire sir,

You are happ'ly met.

That cannot be, by thee.

Why, sir?

Nay 'pray thee know thy way, & leaue me:

I would be loth to inter-change discourse,

With such a mate, as thou art.

Courteous sir,

Scorne not my pouertie.

Not I, by heauen:

But thou shalt giue me leaue to hate thy basenesse.

Basenesse?

I, answere me, is not thy sloth

Sufficient argument? thy flatterie?

Thy meanes of feeding?

Heauen, be good to me.

These imputations are too common, sir,

And eas'ly stuck on vertue, when shee's poore;

You are vnequall to me, and how ere

Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are not,

That ere you know me, thus, proceed in censure:

St. MARKE beare witnesse 'gainst you, 'tis inhumane.

What? do's he weepe? the signe is soft, and good!

I doe repent me, that I was so harsh.

'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessitie,

I am enforc'd to eate my carefull bread

With too much obsequie; 'tis true, beside,

That I am faine to spin mine owne poore rayment,

Out of my mere obseruance, being not borne

To a free fortune: but that I haue done

Base offices, in rending friends asunder,

Diuiding families, betraying counsells,

Whispering false lyes, or mining men with praises,

Train'd their credulitie with periuries,

Corrupted chastitie, or am in loue

With mine owne tender ease, but would not rather

Proue the most rugged, and laborious course,

That might redeeme my present estimation;

Let me here perish, in all hope of goodnesse.

This cannot be a personated passion!

I was to blame, so to mistake thy nature;

'Pray thee forgiue me: and speake out thy bus'nesse.

Sir, it concernes you; and though I may seeme,

At first, to make a maine offence, in manners,

And in my gratitude, vnto my master,

Yet, for the pure loue, which I beare all right,

And hatred of the wrong, I must reueale it.

This verie houre, your father is in purpose

To disinherit you—

How!

And thrust you forth,

As a mere stranger to his bloud; 'tis true, sir:

The worke no way ingageth me, but, as

I claime an interest in the generall state

Of goodnesse, and true vertue, which I heare

T'abound in you: and, for which mere respect,

Without a second ayme, sir, I haue done it.

This tale hath lost thee much of the late trust,

Thou hadst with me; it is impossible:

I know not how to lend it any thought,

My father should be so vnnaturall.

It is a confidence, that well becomes

Your pietie; and form'd (no doubt) it is,

From your owne simple innocence: which makes

Your wrong more monstrous, and abhor'd. But, sir,

I now, will tell you more. This verie minute,

It is, or will be doing: And, if you

Shall be but pleas'd to goe with me, I'le bring you,

(I dare not say where you shall see, but) where

Your eare shall be a witnesse of the deed;

Heare your selfe written bastard: and profest

The common issue of the earth.

I'm maz'd!

Sir, if I doe it not, draw your iust sword,

And score your vengeance, on my front, and face;

Marke me your villaine: You haue too much wrong,

And I doe suffer for you, sir. My heart

Weepes bloud, in anguish—

Lead. I follow thee.

MOSCA stayes long, me thinkes. Bring forth your sports

And helpe, to make the wretched time more sweet.

Who's there? my couch, away, looke, NANO, see:

Giue me my cappes, first——go, enquire. Now, CVPID

Send it be MOSCA, and with faire returne.

It is the beauteous madam—

WOVLD-BE—is it?

The same.

Now, torment on me; squire her in:

For she will enter, or dwell here for euer.

Nay, quickely, that my fit were past. I feare

A second hell too, that my loathing this

Will quite expell my appetite to the other:

Would shee were taking, now, her tedious leaue.

Lord, how it threates me, what I am to suffer!

I Thanke you, good sir. 'Pray you signifie.

Vnto your patron, I am here. This band

Shewes not my neck inough (I trouble you, sir,

Let me request you, bid one of my women

Come hither to me) in good faith, I, am drest

Most fauourably, to day, it is no matter,

'Tis well inough. Looke, see, these petulant things!

How they haue done this!

I do feele the feuer

Entring, in at mine eares; Ô, for a charme,

To fright it hence.

Come neerer: is this curle

In his right place? or this? why is this higher

Then all the rest? you ha' not wash'd your eies, yet?

Or do they not stand euen i'your head?

Where's your fellow? call her.

Now, St. MARKE

Deliuer vs: anon, shee'll beate her women,

Because her nose is red.

I pray you, view

This tire, forsooth: are all things apt, or no?

One haire a little, here, sticks out, forsooth.

Do's 't so forsooth? and where was your deare sight

When it did so, forsooth? what now? bird-ey'd?

And you, too? 'pray you both approch, and mend it.

Now (by that light) I muse, yo' are not asham'd!

I, that haue preach'd these things, so oft, vnto you,

Read you the principles, argu'd all the grounds,

Disputed euery fitnesse, euery grace,

Call'd you to counsell of so frequent dressings——

More carefully, then of your fame, or honour)

Made you acquainted, what an ample dowrie

The knowledge of these things would be vnto you,

Able, alone, to get you noble husbands

At your returne: and you, thus, to neglect it?

Besides, you seeing what a curious nation

Th' Italians are, what will they say of me?

The English lady cannot dresse her selfe;

Here's a fine imputation, to our countrie!

Well, goe your wayes, and stay, i' the next roome.

This fucus was too course too, it's no matter.

Good-sir, you'll giue 'hem entertaynement?

The storme comes toward me.

How do's my VOLP?

Troubled with noise, I cannot sleepe; I dreamt

That a strange furie entred, now, my house,

And, with the dreadfull tempest of her breath,

Did cleaue my roofe asunder.

Beleeue me, and I

Had the most fearefull dreame, could I remember't——

Out on my fate; I ha' giu'n her the occasion

How to torment me: shee will tell me hers.

Me thought, the golden mediocritie

Polite, and delicate—

O, if you doe loue me,

No more; I sweat, and suffer, at the mention

Of any dreame: feele, how I tremble yet.

Alas, good soule! the passion of the heart.

Seed-pearle were good now, boild with syrrope of apples,

Tincture of gold, and corrall, citron-pills,

Your elicampane roote, mirobalanes——

Ay me, I haue tane a grasse-hopper by the wing.

Burnt silke, and amber, you haue muscadell

Good i' the house—

You will not drinke, and part?

No, feare not that. I doubt, we shall not get

Some english saffron (halfe a dram would serue)

Your sixteene cloues, a little muske, dri'd mints,

Buglosse, and barley-meale—

Shee's in againe,

Before I fayn'd diseases, now I haue one.

And these appli'd, with a right scarlet-cloth——

Another floud of wordes! a very torrent!

Shall I,ssir, make you a poultise?

No, no, no;

I'am very well: you need prescribe no more.

I haue, a little, studied physick; but, now,

I'am all for musique, saue, i' the fore-noones,

An houre, or two, for painting. I would haue

A lady, indeed, t' haue all, letters, and artes,

Be able to discourse, to write, to paint,

But principall (as PLATO holds) your musique

(And, so do's wise PYTHAGORAS, I take it)

Is your true rapture, when there is concent

In face, in voice, and clothes: and is, indeed,

Our sexes chiefest ornament.

The Poet,

As old in time, as PLATO, and as knowing,

Say's that your highest female grace is silence.

Which o' your Poets? PETRARCH? or TASSO? or DANTE?

GVERRINI? ARIOSTO? ARETINE?

CIECO di Hadria? I haue read them all.

Is euery thing a cause, to my destruction?

I thanke, I ha' two or three of 'hem, about me.

The sunne, the sea will sooner, both, stand still,

Then her eternall tongue! nothing can scape it.

Here's PASTOR FIDO—

Professe obstinate silence,

That's, now, my safest.

All our English writers,

I meane such, as are happy in th' Italian,

Will deigne to steale out of this author, mainely;

Almost as much, as from MONTAGNIE:

He has so moderne, and facile a veine,

Fitting the time, and catching the court-eare.

Your PETRARCH is more passionate, yet he,

In dayes of sonetting, trusted 'hem, with much:

DANTE is hard, and few can vnderstand him.

But, for a desperate wit, there's ARETINE!

Onely, his pictures are a little obscene——

You marke me not?

Alas, my mind's preturb'd.

Why, in such cases, we must cure our selues,

Make vse of our philosophie—

O'y me.

And, as we find our passions doe rebell,

Encounter 'hem with reason; or diuert 'hem,

By giuing scope vnto some other humour

Of lesser danger: as, in politique bodies,

There's nothing, more, doth ouer-whelme the iudgement,

And clouds the vnderstanding, then too much

Settling, and fixing, and (as't were) subsiding

Vpon one obiect. For the incorporating

Of these same outward things, into that part,

Which we call mentall, leaues some certaine fæces,

That stop the organs, and, as PLATO sayes,

Assassinates our knowledge.

Now, the spirit

Of patience helpe me.

Come, in faith, I must

Visit you more, a dayes; and make you well:

Laugh, and be lustie.

My good angell saue me.

There was but one sole man, in all the world,

With whom I ere could simpathize; and he

Would lie you often, three, foure houres together,

To heare me speake: and be (sometime) so rap't,

As he would answere me, quite from the purpose,

Like you, and you are like him, iust. I'le discourse

(And 't be but only, sir, to bring you a-sleepe)

How we did spend our time, and loues, together,

For some sixe yeeres.

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.

For we were coætanei, and brought vp——

Some power, some fate, some fortune rescue me.

GOd saue you, Madam.

Good sir.

MOSCA? welcome,

Welcome to my redemption.

Why, sir?

Oh,

Rid me of this my torture, quickly, there;

My Madam, with the euerlasting voyce:

The bells, in time of pestilence, [turned n]e're made

Like noise, or were in that perpetuall motion;

The cock-pit comes not neere it. All my house,

But now, stream'd like a bath, with her thicke breath.

A lawyer could not haue beene heard; nor scarse

Another woman, such a hayle of wordes

Shee has let fall. For hells sake, rid her hence

Has shee presented?

O, I doe not care,

I'le take her absence, vpon any price,

With any losse.

Madam—

I ha' brought your patron

A toy, a cap here, of mine owne worke——

'Tis well,

I had forgot to tell you, I saw your Knight,

Where you'ld little thinke it—

Where?

Mary,

Where yet, if you make haste, you may apprehend him,

Rowing vpon the water in a gondole,

With the most cunning curtizan, of Venice.

Is't true?

Pursue 'hem, and beleeue your eyes:

Leaue me, to make your gift. I knew, 't would take.

For lightly, they that vse themselues most licence,

Are still most iealous.

MOSCA, hearty thankes,

For thy quicke fiction, and deliuery of mee.

Now, to my hopes, what saist thou?

But doe you heare, sir?—

Againe; I feare a paroxisme.

Which way

Row'd they together?

Toward the rialto.

I pray you lend me your dwarfe.

I pray you, take him.

Your hopes, sir, are like happie blossomes, faire,

And promise timely fruit, if you will stay

But the maturing; keepe you, at your couch,

CORBACCIO will arriue straight, with the will:

When he is gone, ile tell you more.

My blood,

My spirits are return'd; I am aliue:

And like your wanton gam'ster, at primero,

Whose thought had whisper'd to him, not goe lesse,

Me thinkes I lie, and draw—for an encounter.

SIr, here conceald, you may heare all. But 'pray you

Haue patience, sir; the same's your father, knocks:

I am compeld, to leaue you.

Do so. Yet,

Cannot my thought imagine this a truth.

DEath on me! you are come too soone, what meant you?

Did not I say, I would send?

Yes, but I feard

You might forget it, and then they preuent vs.

Preuent? did ere man haste so, for his hornes?

A courtier would not ply it so, for a place.

Well, now there's no helping it, stay here;

Ile presently returne.

Where are you, CELIA?

You know not wherefore I haue brought you hither?

Not well, except you told me.

Now, I will:

Harke hither.

Sir, your father hath sent word,

It will be halfe an houre, ere he come;

And therefore, if you please to walke, the while,

Into that gallery——at the vpper end,

There are some bookes, to entertaine the time:

And ile take care, no man shall come vnto you, sir.

Yes, I will stay there, I doe doubt this fellow.

There, he is farre enough; he can heare nothing:

And, for his father, I can keepe him off.

Nay, now, there is no starting backe; and therefore,

Resolue vpon it: I haue so decree'd.

It must be done. Nor, would I moue't afore,

Because I would auoide all shifts and tricks,

That might denie me.

Sir, let me beseech you,

Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt

My chastitie, why locke me vp, for euer:

Make me the heyre of darkenesse. Let me liue,

Where I may please your feares, if not your trust.

Beleeue it, I haue no such humor, I.

All that I speake, I meane; yet I am not mad:

Not horne-mad, see you? Go too, shew your selfe

Obedient, and a wife.

O heauen!

I say it,

Do so.

Was this the traine?

I'haue told you reasons;

What the physitians haue set downe; how much,

It may concerne me; what my engagements are;

My meanes; and the necessitie of those meanes,

For my recouery: wherefore, if you bee

Loyall, and mine, be wonne, respect my venture.

Before your honour?

Honour? tut, a breath;

There's no such thing, in nature: a meere terme

Inuented to awe fooles. What is my gold

The worse, for touching? clothes, for being look'd on?

Why, this's no more. An old, decrepit wretch,

That ha's no sense, no sinew; takes his meate

With others fingers; onely knowes to gape,

When you doe scald his gummes; a voice; a shadow;

And, what can this man hurt you?

Lord! what spirit

Is this hath entred him?

And for your fame,

That's such a Iigge; as if I would goe tell it,

Crie it, on the piazza! who shall know it?

But hee, that cannot speake it; and this fellow,

Whose lippes are i' my pocket: saue your selfe,

If you'll proclaime't, you may. I know no other,

Should come to know it.

Are heauen, and saints then nothing?

Will they be blinde, or stupide?

How?

Good Sir,

Be iealous still, æmulate them; and thinke

What hate they burne with, toward euery sinne.

I grant you: if I thought it were a sinne,

I would not vrge you. Should I offer this

To some yong Frenchman, or hot Tuscane bloud,

That had read ARETINE, conn'd all his printes,

Knew euery quirke within lusts laborinth,

And were profest critique, in lechery;

And I would looke vpon him, and applaud him,

This were a sinne: but here, 'tis contrary,

A pious worke, mere charity, for physick,

And honest politie, to assure mine owne.

O heauen! canst thou suffer such a change?

Thou art mine honor, MOSCA, and my pride,

My ioy, my tickling, my delight! goe, bring 'hem.

Please you draw neere, sir.

Come on, what——

You will not be rebellious? by that light——

Sir, signior CORVINO, here, is come to see you.

Oh.

And hearing of the consultation had,

So lately, for your health, is come to offer,

Or rather, sir, to prostitute——

Thankes, sweet MOSCA.

Freely, vn-ask'd, or vn-intreated——

Well.

(As the true, feruent instance of his loue)

His owne most faire and proper wife; the beauty,

Onely of price, in Venice——

'Tis well vrg'd.

To be your comfortresse, and to preserue you.

Alasse, I am past already! 'pray you, thanke 'him,

For his good care, and promptnesse, but for that,

'Tis a vaine labour, eene to fight, 'gainst heauen;

Applying fire to a stone: (vh, vh, vh, vh.)

Making a dead leafe grow againe. I take

His wishes gently, though; and, you may tell him,

What I' haue done for him: mary, my state is hopelesse!

Will him, to pray for me; and t'vse his fortune,

With reuerence, when he comes to't.

Do you heare, sir?

Go to him, with your wife.

Heart of my father!

Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come.

Thou seest 'tis nothing. CELIA. By this hand,

I shall grow violent. Come, do't, I say.

Sir, kill me, rather: I will take downe poyson,

Eate burning coales, doe any thing——

Be damn'd.

(Heart) I will drag thee hence, home, by the haire;

Cry thee a strumpet, through the streets; rip vp

Thy mouth, vnto thine eares; and slit thy nose,

Like a raw rotchet——Do not tempt me, come.

Yeld, I am loth——(Death) I will buy some slaue,

Whom I will kill, and binde thee to him, aliue;

And at my windore, hang you forth: deuising

Some monstrous crime, which I, in capitall letters,

Will eate into thy flesh, with aqua-fortis,

And burning cor'siues, on this stubborne brest.

Now, by the bloud, thou hast incens'd, ile do't.

Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.

Be not thus obstinate, I ha' not deseru'd it:

Thinke, who it is, intreats you. 'Pray thee, sweet;

(Good'faith) thou shalt haue iewells, gownes, attires,

What thou wilt thinke, and aske. Do, but, go kisse him.

Or touch him, but. For my sake. At my sute.

This once. No? not? I shall remember this.

Will you disgrace me, thus? do' you thirst my'vndoing?

Nay, gentle lady, be aduis'd.

No, no.

She has watch'd her time. God's precious, this is skiruy;

'Tis very skiruie: and you are——

Nay, good, sir.

An errant locust, by heauen, a locust. Whore,

Crocodile, that hast thy thy teares prepar'd,

Expecting, how thou'lt bid 'hem flow.

Nay, 'Pray you, sir,

Shee will consider.

Would my life would serue

To satisfie.

(S'death) if shee would but speake to him,

And saue my reputation, 'twere somewhat;

But, spightfully to affect my vtter ruine.

I, now you' haue put your fortune, in her hands.

Why i'faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her;

If you were absent, shee would be more comming;

I know it: and dare vndertake for her.

What woman can, before her husband? 'pray you,

Let vs depart, and leaue her, here.

Sweet CELIA,

Thou mayst redeeme all, yet; I'le say no more:

If not, esteeme your selfe as lost. Nay, stay there.

O god, and his good angels! whether, whether.

Is shame fled humane brests? that with such ease,

Men dare put off your honours, and their owne?

Is that, which euer was a cause of life,

Now plac'd beneath the basest circumstance?

And modestie an exile made, for money?

I, in CORVINO, and such earth-fed mindes,

That neuer tasted the true heau'n of loue.

Assure thee, CELIA, he that would sell thee,

Onely for hope of gaine, and that vncertaine,

He would haue sold his part of paradise

For ready money, had he met a cope-man.

Why art thou maz'd, to see me thus reuiu'd?

Rather applaud thy beauties miracle;

'Tis thy great worke: that hath, not now alone,

But sundry times, 'rays'd me, in seuerall shapes,

And, but this morning, like a mountebanke,

To see thee at thy windore. I, before

I would haue left my practice, for thy loue,

In varying figures, I would haue contended

With the blue PROTEVS, or the horned Floud.

Now, art thou welcome.

Sir!

Nay, flie me not.

Nor, let thy false imagination

That I was bedrid, make thee thinke, I am so:

Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh,

As hot, as high, and in as iouiall plight,

As when (in that so celebrated scene,

At recitation of our comœdie,

For entertainement of the great VALOYS)

I acted yong ANTINOVS; and attracted

The eyes, and eares of all the ladies, present,

T'admire each gracefull gesture, note, and footing.

Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike

This my offending face.

Why droopes my CELIA?

Thou hast in place of abase husband, found

A worthy louer: vse thy fortune well,

With secrecie, and pleasure. See, behold,

What thou art queene of; not in expectation,

As I feed others: but possess'd, and crown'd.

See, here, a rope of pearle; and each, more orient

Then that the braue Ægiptian queene carrous'd:

Dissolue, and drinke 'hem. See, acarbuncle,

May put out both the eyes of our St. MARKE;

A diamant, would haue bought LOLLIA PAVLINA,

When she came in, like star-light hid with iewels,

That were the spoiles of prouinces; take these,

And weare, and loose 'hem: yet remaines an eare-ring

To purchase them againe, and this whole state.

A gem, but worth a priuate patrimonie,

Is nothing: we will eate such at a meale.

The heads of parrats, tongues of neightingales,

The braines of peacoks, and of estriches

Shall be our food: and, could we get the phœnix,

(Though nature lost her kind) shee were our dish.

Good sir, these things might moue a minde affected

With such delights; but I, whose innocence

Is all I can thinke wealthy, or worth th'enioying,

And which once lost, I haue nought to loose beyond it,

Cannot be taken with these sensuall baites:

If you haue conscience——

'Tis the beggers vertue,

If thou hast wisdome, heare me, CELIA.

Thy bathes shall be the iuyce of iuly-flowres,

Spirit of roses, and of violets,

The milke of vnicornes, and panthers breath

Gather'd in bagges, and mixt with cretan wines.

Our drinke shall be prepared gold, and amber;

Which we will take, vntill my roofe whirle round

With the vertigo: and my dwarfe shall dance,

My eunuch sing, my foole make vp the antique.

Whil'st, we, in changed shapes, act OVIDS tales,

Thou, like EVROPA now, and I like IOVE,

Then I like MARS, and thou like ERYCINE,

So, of the rest, till we haue quite run through

And weary'd all the fables of the gods.

Then will I haue thee in more moderne formes,

Attired like some sprightly dame of France,

Braue Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty;

Sometimes, vnto the Persian Sophies wife;

Or the grand-Signiors mistresse; and, for change,

To one of our most art-full courtizans,

Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian;

And I will meet thee, in as many shapes:

Where we may, so, trans-fuse our wandring soules,

Out at our lippes, and score vp summes of pleasuers,

That the curious shall not know,

If you haue eares that will be pierc'd; or eyes,

That can be open'd; a heart, may be touch'd;

Or any part, that yet sounds man, about you:

If you haue touch of holy saints, or heauen,

Do me the grace, to let me scape. If not,

Be bountifull, and kill me. You doe know,

I am a creature, hither ill betrayd,

By one, whose shame I would forget it were,

If you will daigne me neither of these graces,

Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather then your lust;

(It is a vice, comes neerer manlinesse)

And punish that vnhappy crime of nature,

Which you miscal my beauty: flay my face,

Or poison it, with oyntments, for seducing

Your bloud to this rebellion. Rub these hands,

With what may cause an eating leprosie,

E'ene to my bones, and marrow: any thing,

That may disfauour me, saue in my honour.

And I will kneele to you, pray for you, pay downe

A thousand hourely vowes, sir, for your health,

Report, and thinke you vertuous——

Thinke me cold,

Frosen, and impotent, and so report me?

That I had NESTOR'S hernia , thou wouldst thinke.

I doe degenerate, and abuse my nation,

To play with oportunity, thus long:

I should haue done the act, and then haue parlee'd.

Yeeld, or Ile force thee.

O! iust God.

In vaine—

Forbeare, foule rauisher, libidinous swine,

Free the forc'd lady, or thou dy'st, impostor.

But that I am loth to snatch thy punishment

Out of the hand of iustice, thou shouldst, yet,

Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance,

Before this altar, and this drosse, thy idoll.

Lady, let's quit the place, it is the den

Of villany; feare nought, you haue a guard:

And he, ere long, shall meet his iust reward.

Fall on me, roofe, and bury me in ruine,

Become my graue, that wert my shelter. O!

I am vn-masqu'd, vn-spirited, vn-done,

Betray'd to beggery, to infamy—

VVHere shall I runne, most wretched shame of men,

To beate out my vn-luckie braines?

Here, here.

What! dost thou bleed?

O, that his wel-driu'n sword

Had beene so courteous to haue cleft me downe,

Vnto the nauill; ere I liu'd to see

My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all

Thus desperately engaged, by my error.

Woe, on thy fortune.

And my follies, sir.

Th' hast made me miserable.

And my selfe, sir.

Who would haue thought, he would haue harken'd, so?

What shall we do?

I know not, if my heart

Could expiate the mischance, Il'd pluck it out.

Will you be pleas'd to hang me? or cut my throate?

And i'le requite you, sir. Let's die like Romanes,

Since wee haue liu'd, like Grecians.

Harke, who's there?

I heare some footing, officers, the Saffi,

Come to apprehend vs! I doe feele the brand

Hissing already, at my fore-head: now,

Mine eares are boring.

To your couch, sir, you

Make that place good, how euer. Guilty men

Suspect, what they deserue still. Signior CORBACCIO!

VVHy! how now? MOSCA!

O, vndone, amaz'd, sir.

Your sonne (I know not, by what accident)

Acquainted with your purpose to my patron,

Touching your will, and making him your heire;

Entred our house with violence, his sword drawne,

Sought for you, call'd you wretch, vnnaturall,

Vow'd he would kill you.

Me?

Yes, and my patron.

This act, shall disinherit him indeed:

Here is the will.

'Tis well, sir.

Right and well.

Be you as carefull now, for me.

My life, sir,

Is not more tender'd, I am onely yours.

How do's he? will he die shortly, think'st thou?

I feare.

He'll out-last May.

Today?

No, last-out May, sir.

Couldst thou not gi' him a dram?

O, by no meanes, sir.

Nay, I'le not bid you.

This is a knaue, I see.

How, signior VOLTORE! did he heare me?

Parasite.

Who's that? O, sir, most timely welcome—

Scarse,

To the discouery of your tricks, I feare.

You are his, onely? and mine, also? are you not?

Who? I, sir!

You, sir. What deuice is this

About a will?

A plot for you, sir.

Come,

Put not your foist's vpon me, I shall sent 'hem.

Did you not heare it?

Yes, I heare, CORBACCIO

Hath made your patron, there, his heire.

'Tis true,

By my deuice, drawne to it by my plot,

With hope——

Your patron should reciprocate?

And, you haue promis'd?

For your good, I did, sir.

Nay more, I told his sonne, brought, hid him here,

Where he might heare his father passe the deed;

Being perswaded to it, by this thought, sir,

That the vnnaturalnesse, first, of the act,

And then, his fathers oft disclaiming in him,

(Which I did meane t'helpe on) would sure enrage him

To doe some violence vpon his parent.

On which the law should take sufficient hold,

And you be stated in a double hope:

Truth be my comfort, and my conscience,

My onely ayme was, to dig you a fortune

Out of these two, old rotten sepulchers——

I cry thee mercy, MOSCA.)

Worth your patience,

And your great merit, sir. And, see the change!

Why? what successe?

Most haplesse! you must helpe, sir.

Whilst we expected th' old rauen, in comes

CORVINO'S wife, sent hither, by her husband——

What, with a present?

No, sir, on visitation:

(I'le tell you how, anone) and, staying long,

The youth, he growes impatient, rushes forth,

Seizeth the lady, wound's me, makes her sweare

(Or he would murder her, that was his vow)

T'affirme my patron to haue done her rape:

Which how vnlike it is, you see! and, hence,

With that pretext, hee's gone, t'accuse his father;

Defame my patron; defeate you—

Where's her husband?

Let him be sent for, streight.

Sir, I'le goe fetch him.

Bring him, to the Scrutineo.

Sir, I will.

This must be stopt.

O, you do nobly, sir.

Alasse, 'twas labor'd all, sir, for your good;

Nor, was there want of counsel, in the plot:

But fortune can, at any time, orethrow

The proiects of a hundred learned clearkes, sir.

What's that?

Wilt please you sir, to goe along?

Patron, go in, and pray for our successe.

Neede makes deuotion: heauen your labor blesse.

I Told you, sir, it was a plot: you see

What obseruation is. You mention'd mee,

For some instructions: I will tell you, sir,

(Since we are met, here in this height of Venice)

Some few particulars, I haue set downe,

Onely for this meridian; fit to be knowne

Of your crude traueller, and they are these.

I will not touch, sir, at your phrase, or clothes,

For they are old.

Sir, I haue better.

Pardon

I meant, as they are theames.

O, sir, proceed:

I'le slander you no more of wit, good sir.

First, for your garbe, it must be graue, and serious;

Very reseru'd, and lock't; not tell a secret,

On any termes, not to your father; scarse

A fable, but with caution; make sure choise

Both of your company, and discourse; beware,

You neuer spake a truth—

How!

Not to strangers,

For those be they you must conuerse with, most;

Others I would not know, sir, but, at distance,

So as I still might be a sauer, in 'hem:

You shall haue tricks, else, past vpon you, hourely.

And then, for your religion, professe none;

But wonder, at the diuersitie of all;

And, for your part, protest, were there no other

But simply the lawes o' th' land, you could content you:

NIC: MACHIAVEL, and monsieur BODINE, both,

Were of this minde. Then, must you learne the vse,

And handling of your siluer forke, at meales;

The mettall of your glasse: (these are maine matters,

With your Italian) and to know the houre,

When you must eat your melons, and your figges.

Is that a point of state, too?

Here it is.

For your Venetian, if he see a man

Preposterous, in the least, he has him straight;

He has: he strippes him. I'le acquaint you, sir,

I now haue liu'd here ('tis some fourteene monthes)

Within the first weeke, of my landing here,

All tooke me for a citizen of Venice:

I knew the formes, so well——

And nothing else.

I had read CONTARENE, tooke me a house,

Dealt with my Iewes, to furnish it with moueables——

Well, if I could but finde one man, one man,

To mine owne heart, whom I durst trust, I would——

What? what, sir?

Make him rich; make him a fortune:

He should not thinke, againe. I would command it.

As how?

With certaine proiects, that I haue:

Which, I may not discouer.

If I had

But one to wager with, I would lay odds, now,

He tels me, instantly.

One is, (and that

I care not greatly, who knowes) to serue the state

Of Venice, with red herrings, for three yeeres,

And at a certaine rate, from Roterdam,

Where I haue correspondence. There's a letter,

Sent me from one o'th' States, and to that purpose;

He cannot write his name, but that's his marke.

He is a chaundler?

No, a cheesemonger.

There are some other too, with whom I treate,

About the same negotiation;

And, I will vndertake it: For, 'tis thus,

I'le do't with ease, I' haue cast it all. Your hoigh

Carries but three men in her, and a boy;

And she shall make me three returnes, a yeare:

So, if there come but one of three, I saue,

If two, I can defalke. But, this is now,

If my mayne proiect faile.

Then, you haue others?

I should be loath to draw the subtill ayre

Of such a place without my thousand aymes.

Ile not dissemble, sir, where ere I come,

I loue to be consideratiue; and, 'tis true,

I haue, at my free houres, thought vpon

Some certaine goods, vnto the state of Venice,

Which I doe call my cautions: and, sir, which

I meane (in hope of pension) to propound

To the great councell, then vnto the forty,

So to the ten. My meanes are made already——

By whom?

Sir, one, that though his place b'obscure,

Yet, he can sway, and they will heare him. H'is

A commandadore.

What, a common sergeant?

Sir, such, as they are, put it in their mouthes,

What they should say, sometimes: as well as greater.

I thinke I haue my notes, to shew you——

Good, sir,

But, you shall sweare vnto me, on your gentry,

Not to anticipate——

I, sir?

Nor reueale

A circumstance——My paper is not with mee.

O, but, you can remember, sir.

My first is,

Concerning tinder-boxes. You must know,

No family is, here, without it's boxe.

Now sir, it being so portable a thing,

Put case, that you, or I were ill affected

Vnto the state; sir, with it in our pockets,

Might not I goe into the arsenale?

Or you? come out againe? and none the wiser?

Except your selfe, sir.

Goe too, then. I, therefore,

Aduertise to the state, how fit it were,

That none, but such as were knowne patriots,

Sound louers of their countrey, should be sufferd

T'enioy them in their houses: and, euen those,

Seal'd, at some office, and, at such a bignesse,

As might not lurke in pockets.

Admirable!

My next is, how t'enquire, and be resolu'd,

By present demonstration, whether a ship,

Newly arriued from Soria, or from

Any suspected part of all the leuant,

Be guilty of the plague: And, where they vse,

To lie out fortie, fifty daies, sometimes,

About the Lazaretto, for their triall;

Ile saue that charge, and losse vnto the merchant,

And, in an houre, cleare the doubt.

Indeede, sir?

Or——I will loose my labour.

'My faith, that's much,

Nay, sir, conceiue me. 'T will cost me in onions,

Some thirtie liu'res——

Which is one pound sterling.

Beside my water-workes: for this I doe, sir.

First, I bring in your ship, 'twixt two brick walles;

(But those the state shall venter) on the one

I straine me a faire tarre-paulin; and, in that,

I stick my onions, cut in halfes: the other

Is full of loope-holes, out at which, I thrust

The noses of my bellowes; and, those bellowes

I keepe, with water-workes, in perpetuall motion,

(Which is the easi'st matter of a hundred)

Now, sir, your onion, which doth naturally

Attract th' infection, and your bellowes, blowing

The ayre vpon him, will shew (instantly)

By his chang'd colour, if there be contagion,

Or else, remaine as faire, as at the first.

Now'tis knowne, 'tis nothing.

You are right, sir.

I would, I had my note.

'Faith, so would I:

But, you ha' done well, for once, sir.

Were I false,

Or would be made so, I could shew you reasons,

How I could sell this state, now, to the Turke;

Spight of their galleis, or their —

Pray you, sir POLL.

I haue 'hem not, about me.

That I fear'd.

They' are there, sir?

No, this is my diary,

Wherein I note my actions of the day.

'Pray you, let's see, sir. What is here? notandum,

A rat had gnawne my spurre-lethers; notwithstanding,

I put on new, and did goe forth: but, first,

I threw three beanes ouer the threshold. Item,

I went, and bought two tooth-pickes, where of one

I burst, immediatly, in a discourse

With a dutch merchant, 'bout ragion delstato.

From him I went, and payd a moccinigo,

For peecing my silke stockings; by the way,

I cheapen'd sprats: and at St. MARKES, I vrin'd.

'Faith these are politique notes!

Sir, I do slippe

No action of my life, thus, but I quote it.

Beleeue me it is wise!

Nay, sir, read forth.

VVHere should this loose knight be, trow? sure, h'is hous'd.

Why, then he's fast.

I, he plaies both, with me:

I pray you, stay. This heate will doe more harme

To my complexion, then his heart is worth.

(I do not care to hinder, but to take him)

How it comes of!

My master's, yonder.

Where?

With a yong gentleman.

That same's the party!

In mans apparell. 'Pray you, sir, iog my knight:

I will be tender to his reputation,

How euer he demerit.

My lady!

Where?

'Tis shee indeed, sir, you shall know her. She is,

Were she not mine, a lady of that merit,

For fashion, and behauiour; and, for beauty

I durst compare——

It seemes, you are not iealous,

That dare commend her.

Nay, and for discourse——

Being your wife, shee cannot misse that.

Madame,

Here is a gentleman, 'pray you, vse him, fairely,

He seemes a youth, but he is—

None?

Yes, one

Has put his face, as soone, into the world——

You meane, as earely? but to day?

How's this!

Why in this habit, sir, you apprehend me.

Well, master WOVLD-BEE, this doth not become you;

I had thought, the odour, sir, of your good name,

Had beene more precious to you; that you would not

Haue done this dire massacre, on your honour;

One of your grauity, and ranke, besides!

But, knights, I see, care little for the oath

They make to ladies: chiefely, their owne ladies.

Now, by my spurres (the symbole of my knight-hood)

(Lord! how his braine is humbled, for an oath)

I reach you not.

Right, sir, your politie

May beare it through, thus. Sir, a word with you.

I would be loth, to contest publikely,

With any gentlewoman; or to seeme

Froward, or violent (as the courtier sayes)

It comes too neere rusticity, in a lady,

Which I would shun, by all meanes: and, how-euer

I may deserue from master WOVLD-BEE, yet,

T'haue one faire gentlewoman, thus, be made

Th'vnkind instrument, to wrong another,

And one she knowes not, I, and to perseuer;

In my poore iudgement, is not warranted

From being a solœcisme in our sexe,

If not in manners.

How is this!

Sweet madame,

Come neerer to your ayme.

Mary, and will, sir.

Since you prouoke me, with your impudence,

And laughter of your light land-siren, here,

Your SPORVS, your hermaphrodite—

What's here?

Poetique fury, and historique stormes!