Sur. And do you think to have the Stone with this?
Mam. No, I do think to have all this with the Stone.
Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be homo frugi,
A pious, holy, and religious man,

One free from mortal sin, a very virgin

Mam. That makes it

Sir, he is so. But I buy it.

My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch,
A notable, superstitious, good soul,

Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald,
With prayer and fasting for it; and, sir, let him
Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes.
Not a prophane word, afore him: 'tis poison.

[Act ii., Sc. 1.]

The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge with which Mammon confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive strokes of Nilus. They "doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects before we have testimony for their causes; as a lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes passes for an argument to prove the existence of such a place. If there be no one image which rises to the height of the sublime, yet the confluence and assemblage of them all produces an effect equal to the grandest poetry. Xerxes' army that drank up whole rivers from their numbers may stand for single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of the author. It has the whole matter and copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown." It is just such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his "image and superscription; " but Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Sampson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another lying overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure Mammon. What a "towering bravery" there is in his sensuality! He affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if "Egypt with Assyria strove in luxury."

46

VOLPONE; OR THE FOX. A COMEDY [PUBLISHED 1667: PRODUCED 1605]. BY BEN JONSON

Volpone, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is without children, feigns himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as pay their court to him in the expectation of becoming his heirs. Mosca, his knavish confederate, persuades each of these men in turn that he is named for the inheritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly presents. VOLPONE, as on his death-bed. MOSCA. CORBACCIO, an old gentleman.

Mos. Signior Corbaccio, You are very welcome, sir,

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep.

Corb. Does he sleep well?

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

Corb. Good! he shall take

Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him
An opiate here, from mine own doctor-

Mos. He will not hear of drugs.

Corb. Why? I myself

Stood by, while 'twas made; saw all th' ingredients;
And know it cannot but most gently work.

My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.
Volp. Ay, his last sleep if he would take it.
Mos. Sir,

He has no faith in physic.

Corb. Say you, say you?

Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think,
Most of your doctors are the greatest danger,
A worst disease t'escape. I often have

Heard him protest, that your physician
Should never be his heir.

Corb. Not I his heir?

Mos. Not your physician, sir.

Corb. O, no, no, no,

I do not mean it.

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says they flay a man,
Before they kill him.

Corb. Right, I do conceive you.

Mos. And then, they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, But gives them great reward; and he is loth To hire his death so.

Corb. It is true, they kill,

With as much licence as a Judge.

Mos. Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,
And these can kill him too.

Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

Corb. "Tis good.

Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull.

Corb. Good symptoms still.

Mos. And from his brain

Corb. Ha? how? not from his brain?

Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain

Corb. I conceive you, good.

Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum

Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How does he with the swimming of his head? Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him that he breathes.

Corb. Excellent! excellent! sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again a score of

Mos. I was coming for you, sir.

Corb. Has he made his will?

What has he giv'n me?

Mos. No, sir.

Corb. Nothing? ha?

Mos. He has not made his will, sir.

Corb. Oh, oh, oh!

years.

What then did Voltore the lawyer here?

Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard

My master was about his testament;

As I did urge him to do it for your good

Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought so.
Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.
Corb. To be his heir?

Mos. I do not know, sir.

VOL. IV.-18

Corb. True,

I know it too.

Mos. By your own scale, sir.

Corb. Well, I shall prevent him yet. See Mosca, look; Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines,

Will quite weigh down his plate.

Mos. Yea, marry, sir,

This is true physic, this your sacred medicine;
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir.

Corb. "Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
Mos. It shall be minister'd to him in his bowl?
Corb. Ay, do, do, do.

Mos. Most blessed cordial !

This will recover him.

Corb. Yes, do, do, do.

Mos. I think it were not best, sir.

Corb. What?

Mos. To recover him.

Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means.

Mos. Why, sir, this

Will work some strange effect if he but feel it.

Corb. "Tis true, therefore forbear, I'll take my venture;

Give me❜t again.

Mos. At no hand; pardon me;

You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I

Will so advise you, you shall have it all.

Corb. How?

Mos. All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man

Can claim a part; 'tis yours without a rival,

Decreed by destiny.

Corb. How, how, good Mosca ?

Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover.
Corb. I do conceive you.

Mos. And on first advantage

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

Unto the making of his testament;

And show him this.

Corb. Good, good.

Mos. "Tis better yet,

If you will hear, sir.

Corb. Yes, with all my heart.

Mos. Now would I counsel you, make home with speed; There frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe

My master your sole heir.

Corb. And disinherit

My son?

Mos. O sir, the better; for that colour Shall make it much more taking.

Corb. O, but colour?

Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do)

Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, And last produce your will; where (without thought Or least regard unto your proper issue,

A son so brave, and highly meriting)

The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you
Upon my master, and made him your heir;
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude-
Corb. He must pronounce me his?
Mos. "Tis true.

Corb. This plot

Did I think on before.

Mos. I do believe it.

Corb. Do you not believe it?

Mos. Yes, sir.

Corb. Mine own project.

Mos. Which when he hath done, sir—

Corb. Published me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him—

Corb. Ay.

Mos. Being so lusty a man

Corb. "Tis true.

Mos. Yes, sir

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

The very organ to express my thoughts!

Mos. You have not only done yourself a good--

Corb. But multiplied it on my son.

Mos. "Tis right, sir.

Corb. Still my invention.

Mos. 'Las, sir, Heaven knows,

It hath been all my study, all my care

(I ev'n grow grey with all) how to work things—

Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

Mos. You are he,
For whom I labour, here.

Corb. Ay, do, do, do :

I'll straight about it.