GOod morning to the Day; and, next, my Gold:

Open the shrine, that I may see my Saint.

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

The teeming earth, to see the longd-for Sunne

Peepe through the hornes of the Cælestiall Ram.

Am I, to view thy splendor, darkening his:

That lying here, amongst my other hoordes,

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

Strooke out of Chaos, when all darkenes 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 Venus did ascribe,

They should haue giu'n her twenty thousand Cupids;

Such are thy beauties, and our loues. Deare Saint,

Riches, the dombe God, that giu'st all men tongues;

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

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

Is made worth heauen. Thou art vertue, fame,

Honor, 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; fat no beasts

To feede the shambles; haue no mills for iron,

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

I blow no subtill glasse; expose no shipps

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 nêre purge for't;

Teare forth the fathers of poore families

Out of their beds, and coffin them, aliue,

In some kinde, clasping prison, where their bones

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

But your sweet nature doth abhorre these courses;

You loath, the widdowes, or the orphans teares

Should washe your pauements; or their pityous cries

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

Right, Mosca, I do loath it.

And besides, Sir,

You are not like a thresher, that doth stand

With a huge flaile, watching a heape of corne,

And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest graine,

But feedes on mallowes, and such bitter herbes;

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

With Romagnía, and rich Candian wines,

Yet drinks the lees of Lombards vineger:

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

Feed on your sumptuous hangings, and soft bedds.

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

From that bright heape, to mee, 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 do,

But cocker vp my Genius, and liue free

To all delights, my fortune calls me to?

I haue no wife, no parent, childe, allye,

To giue my substance to; but whom I make,

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

This drawes newe clients, dayly, 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, drawe it, by their mouths, and back againe. How now!

NOw roome, for fresh Gamsters, who do will you to know,

They do bring you neither Play, nor Vniuersity Show;

And therefore do intreat you, that whatsoeuer they reherfe,

May not fare a whit the worse, for the false pase of the verse.

If you wonder at this, you will wonder more, ere we passe,

For know, here is inclos'd the Soule of Pithagoras,

That Iugler diuine, as hereafter shall follow;

Which Soule (fast, and loose, Sir) came first from Apollo,

And was breath'd into Æthalides, Mercurius his sonne,

Where it had the gift to remember all that euer was done.

From thence it fled forth, and made quicke transmigration

To goldy-lockt Euphorbus, who was kill'd, in good fashion,

At the seege of old Troy, by the Cuckold of Sparta.

Hermotimus was next (I finde it, in my Chartâ)

To whom it did passe, where no sooner it was missing,

But with one Pirrhus, of Delos, it learn'd to go a fishing:

And thence, did it enter the Sophist of Greece.

From Pithagore, she went into a beautifull peece,

Hight Aspasia, the Meretrix; and the next tosse of her

Was, againe, of a Whore, she became a Philosopher,

Crates the Cynick: (as it selfe doth relate it)

Since, Kings, Knights, & Beggars, Knaues, Lords & Fooles gat it,

Besides, Oxe, and Asse, Cammel, Mule, Goat, and Brock,

In all which it hath spoke, as in the Coblers Cock.

But I come not here, to discourse of that matter,

Or his One, Two, or Three, or his great Oath, by Quater,

His Musicks, his Trigon, his golden Thigh,

Or his telling how Elements shift: but I

Would aske, how of late, thou hast suffered translation,

And shifted thy coat, in these dayes of Reformation?

Like one of the Reformed, a Foole, as you see,

Counting all old Doctrine heresie:

But not on thine owne forbid meates hast thou venter'd?

On fish, when first, a Carthusian I enter'd.

Why, then thy dogmaticall Silence hath left thee?

Of that an obstreperous Lawyer bereft mee.

O wonderfull change! when Sr Lawyer forsooke thee,

For Pithagore's sake, what body then tooke thee?

A good dull Moyle.

And how? by that meanes,

Thou wert brought to allow of the eating of Beanes?

Yes.

But, from the Moyle, into whom did'st thou passe?

Into a very strange Beast, by some Writers cal'd an Asse;

By others, a precise, pure, illuminate Brother,

Of those deuoure flesh, and sometimes one an other:

And will drop you forth a libell, or a sanctified lie,

Betwixt euery spooneful of a Natiuity Pie.

Now quit thee, for Heauen, of that profane nation;

And gently, report thy next transmigration.

To the same that I am.

A Creature of delight?

And (what is more then a Foole) an Hermaphrodite?

Now' pray thee, sweete Soule, in all thy variation,

Which Body wouldst thou choose, to take vp thy station?

Troth, this I am in, euen here would I tarry.

'Cause here, the delight of each Sexe thou canst varie?

Alas, those pleasures be stale, and forsaken;

No, tis your Foole, wherewith I am so taken,

The onely one Creature, that I can call blessed:

For all other formes I haue prou'd most distressed.

Spoke true, as thou wert in Pithagoras still.

This learned opinion we celebrate will,

Fellow Eunuch (as behooues vs) with all our wit, and arte,

To dignifie that, whereof our selues are so great, and special a part.

Now very, very pretty: Mosca, this

Was thy inuention?

If it please my Patron,

Not else.

It doth good Mosca.

Then it was Sr.

Who's that? away, looke Mosca.

Foole, be gon,

'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 intertaine himselfe, a while,

Within i'th' gallery. Now, now, my clients

Beginne their visitation; Vulture, Kite,

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

That thinke me turning carcasse, now they come:

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

A peece 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 (within) now, as he walks:

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

That this would fetch you; if you died 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 bee, and reuerenc'd;

Ride, with his furres, and foote-cloths; waited on

By heards of Fooles, and clients; haue cleare 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 newe 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 Goute,

My Apoplexie, Palsie, and Catarrhe,

Helpe, with your forced functions, this my posture,

Wherein, this three yeare, 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 do wisely to preserue it, thus,

With early visitation, and kinde 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?

Sr. Signior Voltore is come, this morning,

To visit you.

I thanke him.

And hath brought

A peece of antique plate, bought of St. Marke,

With which he here presents you.

He is welcome.

Pray him, to come more often.

Yes.

What saies he?

He thankes you, and desires you see him often.

Mosca.

My Patron?

Bring him neare, where is he?

I long to feele his hand.

The plate is here Sr.

How fare you Sr?

I thanke you, Signior Voltore.

Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.

I'm sorry,

To see you still thus weake.

That hee is not weaker.

You are too munificent.

No Sr. would to heauen,

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

You giue Sr. what you can. I thanke you. Your loue

Hath tast in this, and shall not be vnanswer'd.

I pray you see me often.

Yes, I shall Sr.

Be not far from mee.

Do you obserue that Sr?

Hearken vnto mee, still. It will concerne you.

You are a happy man Sr, know your good.

I cannot now last long.

You are his heyre Sr.

Am I?

I feele mee 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, kinde gentleman, well, we must all go.

But, Mosca.

Age will conquer.

'Pray thee heare mee.

Am I inscrib'd his heire, for certaine?

Are you?

I do beseech you Sr. you will vouchsafe

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

Depend vpon your worship; I am lost,

Except the rising Sunne do shine on me.

It shall both shine, and warme thee, Mosca.

Sr.

I am a man, that haue not done your loue

All the worst offices, here I weare your keys,

See all your coffers, and your caskets lockt,

Keepe the poore inuentorie of your iewels,

Your plate, and moneyes, am your Steward Sr.

Husband your goods here.

But am I sole heyre?

without a partner Sr. confirmde this morning;

The waxe is warme yet, and the inke scarse dry

Vpon the parchment;

Happy, happy mee!

By what good chance, sweete Mosca?

Your desert Sir;

I know no second cause.

Thy modesty

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

He euer lik'd your course Sr. 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 bee Law;

That, with most quicke agility, could turne,

And returne; make knots, and vndoe them;

Giue forked councell; take prouoking gold

On eyther hand, and put it vp: These men,

He knewe, would thriue, with their humility.

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

To haue his heyre 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 knockes, I would not haue you seene Sr.

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

Ile fashion an excuse. And, gentle Sir,

When you do come to swim, in golden lard,

Vp to the armes, in honey, that your chin

Is borne vp stiffe, with fatnesse of the flood,

Thinke on your vassall; but remember mee:

I ha'not beene your worst of clients.

Mosca—

When will you haue your inuentory brought, S^r

Or see a coppy of the Will? Anone,

Ile bring 'hem to you Sir. Away, be gon,

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 we see

A wretch, who is (indeed) more impotent,

Then this can fayne to bee; 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? mendes

hee?

No, Sir: he is rather worse.

That's well. Where is hee?

Vpon his couch Sir, newly fall'n a sleepe.

Do's hee sleepe well?

No winke, Sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday, but slumbers.

Good. He should take

Some counsell of Physitians: 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 has 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 heyre.

Not I his heyre?

Not your Physitian, Sir.

O, no, no, no,

I do not meane it.

No Sir, nor their fees

He cannot brooke: He sayes, they flea a man,

Before they kill him.

Right, I 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 loath

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 mee:

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 braine—

Ha? how? not from his braine?

Yes, Sir, and from his braine—

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 breaths.

Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him:

This makes me yong againe, a score of yeares.

I was a coming for you, Sr.

Has he made his Wil?

What has he giu'n me?

No, Sir.

Nothing? ha?

He has not made his Will, Sir.

Oh, oh, oh.

But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?

He smelt a carcasse Sir, when he but heard

My maister 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 peece of plate.

To be his heire?

I do 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 marry, 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 boule?

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; Ile take my venter:

Giue mee't againe.

At no hand, pardon mee;

You shall not doe your selfe that wrong Sr. I

Will so aduise you, you shall haue it all.

How?

All Sr. 'tis your right, your own; no man

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

Decre'd by destiny.

How? how, good Mosca?

Ile tell you Sr. This fit he shall recouer;

I do conceiue you.

And, on first aduantage

Of his gain'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 councell you, make home with speed;

There, frame a Will; whereto you shall inscribe

My maister your sole heyre.

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 do)

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 maister, and made him your heyre:

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 do beleeue it.

Do you not beleeue it?

Yes Sir.

Mine own proiect.

Which when he hath done, Sir.

Publish'd me his heire?

And you so certaine, to suruiue him.

I.

Beeing 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 multiplied it on my sonne?

'Tis right, Sir.

Still, my inuention.

'Lasse Sir, heauen knowes,

It hath beene all my study, all my care,

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

I do conceiue, sweet Mosca.

You are he,

For whom I labour, here.

I, doe, doe, doe:

Ile straight about it.

Rooke go with you, Rauen.

I know thee honest.

You do lie, Sir.

And—

Your knowledge is no better then your eares, Sir.

I do 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 mee, why not?

Your worship is a precious asse.

What sai'st thou?

I do desire your worship, to make hast, Sir.

'Tis done, 'tis done, I go.

O, I shall burst;

Let out my sides, let out my sides—

Containe

Your fluxe of laughter, Sir; you know, this hope

Is such a baite, 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 humor.

Alas Sir, I but do; as I am taught;

Follow your graue instructions; giue 'hem words;

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 limbes faint,

Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going

All dead before them; yea, their very teeth,

Their instruments of eating, failing them:

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

Is now gone home, that wishes to liue longer!

Feeles not his gout, nor palsy, faines himselfe

Yonger, by scores of yeares, 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 ayre! Who's that, there, now? a third?

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

It is Coruino, our spruce merchant.

Dead.

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

SIgnior Coruino! 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 do 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 Coruino.

Hearke.

Signior Coruino.

'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 graspes it!

'Lasse, good gentleman!

How pittifull the sight is!

Tut, forget Sir.

The weeping of an heyre should still be laughter,

Vnder a visor.

Why? am I his heyre?

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 nomber 'hem, they were so many,

All gaping here for legacyes; but I,

Taking the vantage of his naming you,

(Signior Coruino, Signior Coruino,) tooke

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

Whom he would haue his heyre? Coruino: Who

Should be executor, Coruino: And,

To any question, he was silent too,

I still interpreted the noddes, 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 blinde 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 beggars,

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 familie,

In all, saue mee: 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 sende 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 flowe with slime,

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

Couer'd with hide, in steede of skinne: (nay helpe, Sir)

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

Or, like an old smoak'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 mee.

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

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

Do as you will, but Ile 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 needelesse care

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

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

That owe my beeing to you?

Gratefull Mosca:

Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion,

My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes.

Excepting one.

Whats that?

Your gallant wife, Sir.

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

To shoote 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 sensual, in his pleasures,

Then will Volpone. Let me 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 Would-bee, Sir.

Wife, to the English Knight, Sir Politique Would-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 ayres,

She hath not yet the face, to be dishonest.

But, had she Signior Coruino's wiues face—

Has she so rare a face?

O Sir, the wonder,

The blazing Starre of Italy; a wench

O'the first yeare, a beauty, ripe, as haruest!

Whose skinne is whiter then a Swan, all ouer!

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

Would tempt you to eternity 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 neare, 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 go see her, though but at her windore.

In some disguise, then?

That is true, I must

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

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

It is not Italy, 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 mindes, and manners, with Vlisses:

But, a peculiar humour of my wiues,

Layd 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?

Seauen 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?

Marry, 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 Politique Would-bee.

O, that speaks him.

A Knight, Sir?

A poore Knight, Sir.

Your Lady

Lies here, in Venice, for intelligence

Of tires, and fashions, and behauiour,

Among the Curtizans? the fine Lady Would-be?

Yes; Sir; the spider, and the bee, oft times,

Suck from one flower.

Good Sir Politique!

I crie you mercy; I haue heard much of you:

Tis true, Sir, of your Rauen.

On your knowledge?

Yes, and your Lions 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 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 very day

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

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

As high as Woollwich, that had waited there

(Few know how many moneths) for the subuersion

Of the Stode-Fleete.

Is't possible? Beleeue it,

'Twas either sent from Spaine, or the Arch-duke,

Spinola's Whale, vpon my life, my credit;

Will they not leaue these proiects? Worthy Sir,

Some other newes.

Faith, Stone, the Foole, is dead;

And they do lack 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 deepely 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 know 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, apricocks,

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 Ordinary,

Take his aduertisement, from a Traueller

(A conceald States-man) in a trencher of meate;

And, instantly, before the meale was done,

Conuay an answer in a tooth-pick.

Strange!

How could this be, Sir?

Why, the meate was cut

So like his character, and so layd, as he

Must easily read the cipher.

I haue heard,

He could not read, Sir.

So, 'twas giuen out,

(In pollitie,) 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 kinde of subtle Nation, neare 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 aduises 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 do 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 knowe the ebbes,

And flowes of State.

Beleeue it, Sir, I hold

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

For casting mee thus luckely, vpon you;

Whose knowledge (if your bounty equall it)

May do me great assistance, in instruction

For my behauiour, and my bearing, which

Is yet so rude, and raw—

Why? came you forth

Empty of rules, for trauayle?

Faith, I had

Some common ones, from out that vulgar Grammar,

Which hee, that cri'd Italian to mee, taught mee.

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

Trusting our hopefull gentry 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 kinde, touching some great mens sonnes,

Persons of bloud, and honor—

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 Montebankes?

Yes, Sir.

Why,

Here shall you see one.

They are Quack-saluers,

Fellowes, that liue by venting oyles, and drugs?

Was that the character hee gaue you of them?

As I remember.

Pittie his ignorance.

They are the onely-knowing men of Europe,

Great, generall Schollers, excellent Phisitians,

Most admir'd States-men, profest Fauorites,

And cabinet-Councellors, 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 beliers

Of great-mens fauors, 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 valew'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 hee? nay, then

Ile proudly promise, Sir, you shall behold

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

I wonder, yet, that hee 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! hee's a man

May write 10000. Crownes, in Banke, here. Note,

Marke but his gesture; I do vse to obserue

The state hee keepes, in getting vp!

Tis worth it, Sir.

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 too.

BLoud of 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 Poll?

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

It may be some designe, on you:

I knowe

not.

Ile stand vpon my gard.

'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 loose 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 Cupid, boulting from her eyes,

Hath shot himselfe into me, like a flame;

Where, now, he flings about his burning heat,

As in a furnace, some ambitious fire,

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

I cannot liue, except thou helpe me, Mosca;

My liuer melts, and I, without the hope

Of some soft ayre, 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 do confesse, I was vnfortunate,

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

No lesse then duety, 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 bidd you to dispaire 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

But bring suceesse to your desires.

Nay, then,

I not repent me of my late disguise.

If you can horne him, Sir, you neede not.

True:

Besides, I neuer meant him for my heyre.

Is not the colour of 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 beleefe, that I was Scoto?

Sir,

Scoto himselfe could hardly haue distinguish'd;

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

And, as I prosper, so applaud my art.

DEath of mine honour, with the citties Foole?

A iugling, tooth-drawing, prating Montebanke?

And, at a publique windore? where whil'st hee,

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

To his drug-Lecture drawes your itching eares,

A crewe of old, vn-mari'd, noted lechers,

Stood leering vp, like Satyres; and you smile,

Most graciously? and fanne your fauours forth,

To giue your hote Spectators satisfaction?

What; was your Montebanke their call? their whistle?

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

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

Or his imbroydred sute, with the cope-stitch,

Made of a herse-cloath? 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 Mother. 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'foote.

Get you a citterne, Lady Vanity,

And be a Dealer, with the Vertuous Man;

Make one: Ile but protest my selfe a cuckold,

And saue your dowry. 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 pacience.

What couldst thou propose

Lesse to thy selfe, then, in this heate 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?

Alas Sir, be appeas'd; I could not thinke

My beeing 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 handkercheife;

Which he, most sweetly, kist in the receipt,

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

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

Your mothers, or your aunts might serue the turne.

Why, deare Sir, when do 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 liberty,

To what I now decree: And therefore, marke mee.

First, I will haue this baudy light damn'd vp;

And, till't be done, some two, or three yards of,

Ile chalke a line: ore which, if thou but (chance

To) set thy desp'rate foote; more hell, more horror,

More wilde, remorcelesse rage shall seize on thee,

Then on a Coniuror, that had heed-lesse left,

His Circles saftie, ere his Deuill was layd.

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

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

Thy lodging shall bee back-wards; thy walkes back-wards;

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

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

My honest nature, know, it is your owne

Being to open, makes me vse you thus.

Since you will not containe your subtill nostrills

In a sweete roome, but, they must snuffe the ayre

Of ranke, and sweaty passengers–One knocks.

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 Anatomy,

Dissect thee mine owne selfe, and read a lecture

Vpon thee, to the citty, 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 gesse your newes.

I feare, you cannot, Sir.

Is't not his death?

Rather, the contrary.

Not his recouery?

Yes, Sir,

I am curst,

I am bewitch'd, my crosses meete to vexe mee.

How? how? how? how?

Why, Sir, with Scoto's oyle;

Corbaccio, and Voltore brought of it,

Whilst I was busy in an inner roome—

Death! that damn'd Mountebanke; but, for the Law,

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

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 al his forc'd tricks, beene glad

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

It cannot bee. All his ingredients

Are a sheepes gall, a rosted bitches marrow,

Some fewe sod earewigs pounded caterpillers,

A little capons grease, and fasting spitle:

I know 'hem, to a dram.

I know not, Sir,

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

Some in his nostrills, 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 Physitians

Consulting on him how they might restore him;

Where, one would haue a cataplasme of spices,

Another a flead Ape clapt to his brest,

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

With wild Catts skinnes: At last, they all resolu'd

That, to preserue him, was no other meanes,

But some yong woman must be streight sought out.

Lusty, and ful 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 aduise, since it concernes you most,

Because, I would not do that thing might crosse

Your ends, on whome I haue my whole dependance, Sir:

Yet if I do 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 do but tell you, Sir. Besides, they are all

Now striuing, who shall first present him. Therefore—

I could intreate you, breefly, 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 cheate vs all.

Tis true.

No, no: it must be one, that has no tricks, 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 Lupo, the Physitian,

His daughter?

And a virgin, Sir. Why? Alasse

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

That naught can warme his bloud Sir, but a feuer:

Nor any incantation raise his spirit:

A long forgetfullnesse hath seiz'd that part.

Besides, Sir, who shall know it? some one, or two.

I pray thee giue mee leaue: If any man

But I had had this luck- The thing in'tselfe,

I know, is nothing– Wherefore should not I

As well command my bloud, and my affections,

As this dull Doctor? In the point of honor,

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

I heare him comming.

She shall doo't: Tis done.

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

Vnlesse't bee for his councell (which is nothing)

Offer his daughter, what should I, that am

So deepely in? I will preuent him, wretch!

Couetous wretch! Mosca, I haue determin'd.

How Sir?

Wee'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 councell 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 go.

'Tis but to pul 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, Ile be briefe,

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

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

And willingnesse, I do it; sweare it was,

On the first hearing, (as thou mayst do, truely)

Mine owne free motion.

Sir, I warrant you,

Ile so possesse him with it, that the rest

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

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

Vntill I send, for I haue something, else

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

But do not you forget to send, now.

Feare not.

WHere are you, wife? my Celia? wife? what, blubbering?

Come, drye those teares. I thinke, thou thought'st mee 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 humor.

Do not I know, if women haue a will,

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

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

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

And see, Ile giue thee cause too, to beleeue it.

Come, kisse mee. Go, 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 do 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 skinne, now, like a subtill snake,

I am so limber. O! Your Parasite

Is a most pretious 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-art,

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

No family, no care, and therefore mould

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

Kitchin-inuention, and some stale receipts

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

With their Court-dog-trickes, that can fawne, and fleere,

Make their reuenue out of legges, 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;

Shoote 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;

Toyles 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.

WHo's this? Bonario? old Corbaccio's sonne?

The person I was bound to seeke. Fayre Sir,

You are happ'ly met.

That cannot be, by thee.

Why Sir?

Nay 'pray thee know thy way, and leaue me;

I would be loath to inter-change discourse,

With such a mate, as thou art.

Curteous Sir.

Scorne not my pouerty.

Not I, by heauen,

But thou shalt giue mee leaue to hate thy basenesse.

Basenesse?

I, Answer me, Is not thy sloth

Sufficient argument? thy flattery?

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 do repent mee, that I was so harsh.

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

I am enforc'd to eate my carefull bread

With to much obsequy; '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 councells,

Whispering false lies, or mining men with prayses,

Train'd their credulitie with periuries,

Corrupted chastity, 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 too blame, so to mistake thy nature;

'Pray thee forgiue mee: 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 maister,

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

And hatred of the wrong, I must reueale it.

This very 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 mee, 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 piety; 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 very minute,

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

Shall be but pleas'd to goe with me, Ile 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 do it not, draw your iust sword,

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

Marke me your villayne: You haue too much wrong,

And I do 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 sweete.

Dwarfe, Foole, and Eunuch, well mett here wee be.

A question it were now, whether of vs three,

Being, all, the knowne delicates, of a rich man,

In pleasing him, claime the precedency can?

I claime for my selfe.

And, so doth the Foole.

Tis foolish indeed: let me set you both to schoole.

First, for your Dwarfe, hee's little, and witty,

And euery thing, as it is little, is pritty;

Else, why do men say to a creature (of my shape)

So soone as they see him, it's a pritty little Ape?

And, why a pritty Ape? but for pleasing imitation

Of greater mens action, in a ridiculous fashion.

Beside, this feat body of mine doth not craue

Halfe the meat, drinke, and cloth, one of your bulkes will haue.

Admit, your Fooles face be the Mother of laughter,

Yet, for his braine, it must alwaies come after:

And, though that do feede him, it's a pittifull case,

His body is beholding to such a bad face.

Who's there? my couch, Away, looke Nano, see:

Giue mee my cappes, first—go, enquire. Now, Cupid

Send it be Mosca, and with faire returne.

It is the beauteous Madam—

Would-bee? is it?

The same.

Now, torment on mee; squire her in:

For she will enter, or dwell here for euer.

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

A second hell too, that my loathing this

Will quite expell my appetite to the other:

Would she were taking, now, her tedious leaue.

Lord, how it threates mee, 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 hether to mee) In good faith, I, am drest

Most fauorably, 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; O, for a charme,

To fright it hence.

Come nearer: 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: anone, 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-eyd?

And you too? pray you both approach, 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 councell of so frequent dressings—

(More carefully, then of your fame, or honor)

Made you acquainted, what an ample dowry

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 mee?

The English Lady cannot dresse her selfe;

Here's a fine imputation, to our Country:

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

This fucus was to 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 noyse, I cannot sleepe; I dreamt

That a strange Fury 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 mee: shee will tell me hers.

Me thought, the golden Mediocrity

Polite, and delicate—

O, if you do loue mee,

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

Of any dreame: feele, how I tremble yet.

Alasse, good soule! the Passion of the heart.

Seede-pearle were good now, boild with sirrope of Apples,

Tincture of Gold, and Corrall, Citron-pills,

Your Elicampane roote, Mirobalanes—

Ay me, I haue tâne 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, wee shall not get

Some English saffron (halfe a dram would serue)

Your sixteene Cloues, a little Muske, dri'd Mintes,

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 words! a very torrent!

Shall I, Sir, make you a poultise?

No, no, no;

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

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

I'am all for Musique: saue, i' the forenoones,

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

A Lady, indeed, t'haue all, Letters, and Artes,

Be able to discourse, to write, to paynt,

But principall (as Plato holds) your Musique

(And, so do's wise Pithagoras, 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 Poët,

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?

Guerrini? Ariosto? Aretine?

Cieco di Hadria? I haue read them all.

Is euery thing a cause, to my distruction?

I thinke, I ha' two or three of 'hem, about mee.

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

Then her æternall 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 Montagnié;

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 fewe can vnderstand him.

But, for a desperate wit, there's Aretine;

Onely, his pictures are a little obscene—

You marke mee not?

Alasse, my mind's perturb'd.

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

Make vse of our Philosophie —

O'ay mee.

And, as we finde our passions do rebell,

Encounter 'hem with reason; or diuert 'hem,

By giuing scope vnto some other humour

Of lesser danger: As, in politique bodyes,

There's nothing, more. doth ouerwhelme the iudgment,

And clouds the vnderstanding, then too much

Setling, 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 lusty.

My good Angell saue mee.

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

With whom I ere could sympathize; and hee

Would lie you often, three, foure houres together,

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

As he would answer me, quite from the purpose,

Like you, and you are like him, iust. Ile discourse

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

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

For some sixe yeares.

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

For we were Coætanei, and brought vp—

Some power, some fate, some fortune rescue mee.

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, nêre made

Like noyse, or were in that perpetuall motion;

The Cock-pit comes not neare it. All my house,

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

A Lawyer could not haue beene heard; nor scarse

Another Woman: such a hayle of words

She has let fall. For hells sake, ridd her hence.

Has she presented?

O, I do not care,

I'le take her absence, vpon any price,

With any losse.

Madam.

I ha' brought your Pa-tron

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?

Marry,

Where yet, if you make hast 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 mee, to make your gift. I knew, 'twould take.

For lightly, they, that vse themselues most licence,

Are still most iealous.

Mosca, hearty thanks,

For thy quick fiction, and deliuery of mee.

Now, to my hopes, what saist thou?

But do 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 happy blossomes, fayre,

And promise timely fruict, 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 bloud,

My spirits are return'd; I am aliue:

And like your wanton gam'ster, at Primero,

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

Me thinkes I lie, and drawe–for an encounter.

SIr, here conceald, you may here 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 to 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 hast 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 hether?

Not well, except you told mee.

Now, I will:

Hearke hether.

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 do doubt this fellow.

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

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

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

Resolue vpon it: I haue so decree'd.

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

Because I would auoyd all shifts and tricks,

That might deny mee.

Sir, let mee beseech you,

Affect not these strange trialls; if you doubt

My chastity, why lock 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 Phisitians haue set downe; how much,

It may concerne mee; what my ingagements are;

My meanes; and the necessity 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 mere 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, decrepite wretch,

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

With others fingers; onely knowes to gape,

When you do 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 go 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 knowe it.

Are heauen, and Saints then nothing?

Will they be blind, or stupide?

How?

Good Sir,

Be iealous stil, æmulate them; and thinke

What hate they burne with, toward euery sinne.

I graunt you; if I thought it were a sinne,

I would not vrge you. Should I offer this

To some young 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: go, bring 'hem.

Please you drawe neare, Sir.

Come on, what—

You will not be rebellious? By that light—

Sir, Signior Coruino, 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, sweete Mosca,

Freely, vna—sk'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 bee 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: (uh, uh, uh, uh,)

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 mee; and t'vse his fortune,

With reuerence, when he comes to it.

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 mee, rather: I will take downe poyson,

Eate burning coales, do any thing—

Be damn'd.

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

Cry thee a strumpet, through the streetes; rip vp

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

Like a raw rotchet— Do not tempt mee, 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 CAPITAL 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 doo't.

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

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

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

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

What thou' wilt thinke, and aske— Do, but, goe kisse him.

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

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

Will you disgrace mee, thus? Do'you thirst my'vndoing?

Nay, gentle Lady, bee 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 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 she 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 departe, and leaue her, here.

Sweete Celia,

Thou mayst redeeme all, yet; Ile say no more:

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

O God, and his good Angells! whether, whether

Is shame fled humane brests? that, with such ease,

Men dare put of your honors, and their owne?

Is that, which euer was a cause of life,

Now plac'd beneath the basest circumstance?

And modesty an exile made, for money?

I, in Coruino, 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 mee thus reuiu'd?

Rather, applaud thy beauties miracle;

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

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

And, but this morning, like a Mountebanke,

To see thee at thy windore. I, before

I would haue left my practise, for thy loue,

In varying figures, I would haue contended

With the blew Proteus, or the horned Floud.

Now, art thou welcome.

Sir.

Nay, flie mee 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 entertayment of the great Valoys)

I acted yong Antinoüs; 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 a base husband, found

A worthy louer: vse thy fortune well,

With secrecy, and pleasure. See, behold,

What thou art Queene of; not in expectation,

As I feede 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, a Carbuncle,

May put out both the eyes of our St Marke;

A Diamant, would haue bought Lollia Paulina,

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

That were the spoyles 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 patrimony,

Is nothing: we will eate such at a meale.

The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingalles,

The braynes of peacocks, and of estriches

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

(Though Nature lost her kind) she 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 baytes:

If you haue conscience—

'Tis the Beggers vertue,

If thou hast wisdome, heare me Celia.

Thy bathes shall be the iuyce of Iuly-flowers,

Spirit of roses, and of violets,

The milke of vnicornes, and panthers breath

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

Our drinke shal 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 Ouids tales,

Thou, like Europa now, and I like Ioue,

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 Beautie;

Sometimes, vnto the Persian Sophies Wife;

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

To one of our most arte-full Curtezans,

Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian;

And I will meete thee, in as many shapes:

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

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

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 mee the grace, to let me scape—if not,

Be bountifull, and kill mee—you do knowe,

I am a creature, hether ill betrayd,

By one, whose shame I would forget it were—

If you will daigne mee neither of these graces,

Yet feede your wrath, Sir, rather then your lust—

(It is a vice, comes nearer manlinesse-)

And punish that vnhappy crime of nature,

Which you miscall my beauty—Flea 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 dis-fauour mee, saue in my honour—

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

A thousand howrely 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 do 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 loath 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, lets quit the place, it is the den

Of villany; feare nought, you haue a guard:

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

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

Become my graue, that wert my shelter. O,

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

Betray'd to beggary, to infamy—

WHere shall I runne, most wretched shame of men,

To beate out my vn-luckie braines?

Here, here.

What? dost thou bleede?

O, that his well-driu'n sword

Had beene so curteous, to haue cleft me downe,

Vnto the nauill; êre 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.

Thou hast made mee miserable.

And my selfe, Sir.

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

What shall wee doe?

I know not, if my heart

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

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

And ile requite you, Sir. Let's die like Romanes,

Since wee haue liu'd, like Grecians.

Hearke, who's there?

I heare some footing, Officers, the Saffi,

Come to apprehend vs! I do 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!

WHy! 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.

Mee?

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 tenderd, I am onely yours.

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

I feare

He'll out-last May.

To day?

No, last-out May, Sir,

Couldst thou not gi' him a dram?

O by no meanes, Sir.

Nay, Ile not bid you.

This 's a knaue, I see.

How, Signior Voltore!s did he heare mee?

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 deuise is this

About a Will?

A plot for you, Sir.

Come,

Put not your foyst'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 deuise, 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 tóld his sonne, brought, hid him here,

Where he might heare his father passe the deed:

Beeing perswaded to it, by this thought, Sir,

That the vnnaturallnesse, first, of the act,

And then, his fathers oft disclayming in him,

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

To do 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 happlesse! you must helpe, Sir.

Whilst wee expected th' old Rauen, in comes

Coruino's wife, sent hether, by her husband—

What, with a present?

No, Sir, on visitation:

(Ile tell you how, anone) and, staying long,

The youth, hee growes impatient, rushes forth,

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

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

T' affirme my Patron would 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 bee sent for, streight.

Sir, Ile go 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 councell, 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 go along?

Patron, go in, and pray for our successe.

Need 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 perticulars, I haue set downe,

Onely, for this meridian, fit to be knowne