Mos. Why, sir? Corv. I have brought him here a pearl. So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir: : Corv. Venice was never owner of the like, Mos. Hark. Volp. Signior Corvino. Mos. He calls you, step and give it him. He's here, sir ? And he has brought you a rich pearl. Corv. How do you, sir? Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract. He cannot understand, his hearing's gone; And yet it comforts him to see you Cord. Say, I have a diamond for him too, Mos. Best shew't, sir, Put it into his hand; tis only there He apprehends: he has his feeling yet, See how he graps it! Corv. 'Las, good gentleman! How pitiful the sight is! Mos. Tut forget, sir, The weeping of an heir should still be laughter, Coro. Why, am I his heir? Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will, Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him, Should Should be executor! Corvino. And Through weakness, for consent: and sent home the others, Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry, and curse. Coro. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us? Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows no man, No face of friend, nor name of any servant, Corv. Has he children? Mos. Bastards, Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, drunk: Knew you not that, sir? 'Tis the common fable, In all, save me: but he has given 'em nothing. Corv. That's well, that's well. Art sure he does not hear us? Mos. Sure, sir? why look you, credit your own sense. The pox approach, and add to your diseases, If it would send you hence the sooner, sir, Throughly, and throughly, and the plague to boot. close Those filthy eyes of your's, that flow with slime, Corv. Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the rain Ran down in streaks. Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out; You may be louder yet: a culvering Discharged in his ear, would hardly bore it. Coro. His nose is like a common sewer, Mos. 'Tis good; and what his mouth? Mos. O, stop it up Corv. By no means. Mos. Pray you let me. still running. Faith I could stifle him rarely with a pillow, It is your presence makes him last so long. Mos. No, sir, why? Why should you be thus scrupulous? 'Pray you, sir. Coro. Nay at your discretion. Mos. Well, good sir, be gone. Coro. I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you? Is not all here yours? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature, Corv. Grateful Mosca ! Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, Thou hast to-day out gone thyself. THE THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE BEING THE SECOND OF FOUR PLAYS, OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS, IN ONE. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT, Violanta, Daughter to a Nobleman of Milan, is with child by Gerrard, supposed to be of mean descent: an offence which by the laws of Milan is mude capital to both parties, VIOLANTA. GERRARD. Viol. Why does my Gerrard grieve? It is not life (which by our Milan law My fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive; Of this your noble burthen from least hurt, Because your blood is in it. But since your love And can heaven think fit ye die for me? For Heaven's sake say I ravish'd you; I'll swear it, Viol. O Gerrard, thou art my life and faculties, It was so far from rape, that heaven doth know, Such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush. Ger. Ger. O! but my rarest Violanta, when That my poor aunt and me, which his free alms That his own son might look for, had he one; Viol. Gentle, gentle Gerrard, Be cheer'd, and hope the best. My mother, father, Being the only branch of all their stocks: But neither they, nor he thou would'st not grieve I'll rather silent die, that thou may'st live Violanta is attended in Childbed by her mother Angelina. Viol. Mother, I'd not offend you: might not Gerrard Steal in and see me in the evening? Angel. Well, Bid him do so. Viol. Heaven's blessing on your heart. Do ye not call child-bearing travel, mother? Angel. Yes. Viol. It well may be. The bare-foot traveller That's born a prince, and walks his pilgrimage, Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it. Alas, dear mother, you groan'd thus for me, Angel. |