payment page
SCENE 8
[The same.]
[Enter MOSCA, wounded and bleeding.]
MOS: Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men,
To beat out my unlucky brains?
VOLP: Here, here.
What! dost thou bleed?
MOS: O that his well-driv'n sword
Had been so courteous to have cleft me down
Unto the navel; ere I lived to see
My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all
Thus desperately engaged, by my error!
VOLP: Woe on thy fortune!
MOS: And my follies, sir.
VOLP: Thou hast made me miserable.
MOS: And myself, sir.
Who would have thought he would have harken'd, so?
VOLP: What shall we do?
MOS: I know not; if my heart
Could expiate the mischance, I'd pluck it out.
Will you be pleased to hang me? or cut my throat?
And I'll requite you, sir. Let us die like Romans,
Since we have lived like Grecians.
[Knocking without.]
VOLP: Hark! who's there?
I hear some footing; officers, the saffi,
Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand
Hissing already at my forehead; now,
Mine ears are boring.
MOS: To your couch, sir, you,
Make that place good, however.
[VOLPONE lies down, as before.]
—Guilty men
Suspect what they deserve still.
[Enter CORBACCIO.]
Signior Corbaccio!
SCENE 9
[The same.]
CORB: Why, how now, Mosca?
MOS: O, undone, amazed, sir.
Your son, I know not by what accident,
Acquainted with your purpose to my patron,
Touching your will, and making him your heir,
Enter'd our house with violence, his sword drawn
Sought for you, call'd you wretch, unnatural,
Vow'd he would kill you.
CORB: Me!
MOS: Yes, and my patron.
CORB: This act shall disinherit him indeed;
Here is the will.
MOS: 'Tis well, sir.
CORB: Right and well:
Be you as careful now for me.
[Enter VOLTORE, behind.]
MOS: My life, sir,
Is not more tender'd; I am only yours.
CORB: How does he? Will he die shortly, think'st thou?
MOS: I fear
He'll outlast May.
CORB: To-day?
MOS: No, last out May, sir.
CORB: Could'st thou not give him a dram?
MOS: O, by no means, sir.
CORB: Nay, I'll not bid you.
VOLT: [Coming forward.] This is a knave, I see.
MOS: [Seeing VOLTORE.]: How! Signior Voltore!
[Aside.] did he hear me?
VOLT: Parasite!
MOS: Who's that?—O, sir, most timely welcome—
VOLT: Scarce,
To the discovery of your tricks, I fear.
You are his, ONLY? And mine, also? are you not?
MOS: Who? I, sir?
VOLT: You, sir. What device is this
About a will?
MOS: A plot for you, sir.
VOLT: Come,
Put not your foists upon me; I shall scent them.
MOS: Did you not hear it?
VOLT: Yes, I hear Corbaccio
Hath made your patron there his heir.
MOS: 'Tis true,
By my device, drawn to it by my plot,
With hope—
VOLT: Your patron should reciprocate?
And you have promised?
MOS: For your good, I did, sir.
Nay, more, I told his son, brought, hid him here,
Where he might hear his father pass the deed:
Being persuaded to it by this thought, sir,
That the unnaturalness, first, of the act,
And then his father's oft disclaiming in him,
(Which I did mean t' help on,) would sure enrage him
To do some violence upon 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 only aim was to dig you a fortune
Out of these two old rotten sepulchres—
VOLT: I cry thee mercy, Mosca.
MOS: Worth your patience,
And your great merit, sir. And see the change!
VOLT: Why, what success?
MOS: Most happless! you must help, sir.
Whilst we expected the old raven, in comes
Corvino's wife, sent hither by her husband—
VOLT: What, with a present?
MOS: No, sir, on visitation;
(I'll tell you how anon;) and staying long,
The youth he grows impatient, rushes forth,
Seizeth the lady, wounds me, makes her swear
(Or he would murder her, that was his vow)
To affirm my patron to have done her rape:
Which how unlike it is, you see! and hence,
With that pretext he's gone, to accuse his father,
Defame my patron, defeat you—
VOLT: Where is her husband?
Let him be sent for straight.
MOS: Sir, I'll go fetch him.
VOLT: Bring him to the Scrutineo.
MOS: Sir, I will.
VOLT: This must be stopt.
MOS: O you do nobly, sir.
Alas, 'twas labor'd all, sir, for your good;
Nor was there want of counsel in the plot:
But fortune can, at any time, o'erthrow
The projects of a hundred learned clerks, sir.
CORB: [Listening.] What's that?
VOLT: Will't please you, sir, to go along?
[Exit CORBACCIO, followed by VOLTORE.]
MOS: Patron, go in, and pray for our success.
VOLP: [Rising from his couch.] Need makes devotion: heaven your labour bless!
[Exeunt.]
