Mos. Why, sir?

Corv. I have brought him here a pearl.
Mos. 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 pearl orient, sir?

:

Corv. Venice was never owner of the like,
Volp. Signior Corvino.

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.
Mos. Sir,

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,
Under a visor.

Coro. Why, am I his heir?

Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will,
Till he be dead: but, here has been Corbaccio,
Here has been Voltore, here were others too,
I cannot number 'em, they were so many,
All gaping here for legacies; but I,
Taking the vantage of his naming you,
(Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino) took

Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him,
Whom he would have his heir? Corvino, Who

Should

Should be executor! Corvino. And
To any question he was silent to,
I still interpreted the nods, he made

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,
Who't was that fed him last, or gave him drink;
Not those he hath begotten, or brought up,
Can he remember.

Corv. Has he children?

Mos. Bastards,

Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars,
Gypsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was

drunk:

Knew you not that, sir? 'Tis the common fable,
The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his ;
He's the true father of his family,

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,
For your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it

Throughly, and throughly, and the plague to boot.
(You may come near, sir) would you would once

close

Those filthy eyes of your's, that flow with slime,
Like two frog-pits: and those same hanging cheeks,
Cover'd with hide, instead of skin: (nay help, sir)
That look like frozen dish-clouts set on end.

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?
Corv. A very draught.

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,
As well as any woman that should keep him.
Coro. Do as you will, but I'll begone.
Mos. Be so;

It is your presence makes him last so long.
Coro. I pray you use no violence.

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,
That owe my being to you?

Corv. Grateful Mosca !

Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion,
My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes. [Exit,
Volp. My divine Mosca !

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?
Ger. O my sweet mistress,

It is not life (which by our Milan law

My fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive;
That I would lose to save the little finger

Of this your noble burthen from least hurt,

Because your blood is in it. But since your love
Made poor incompatible me the parent
(Being we are not married) your dear blood
Falls under the same cruel penalty:

And can heaven think fit ye die for me?

For Heaven's sake say I ravish'd you; I'll swear it,
To keep your life and repute unstain'd.

Viol. O Gerrard, thou art my life and faculties,
And if I lose thee, I'll not keep mine own;
The thought of whom sweetens all miseries.
Would'st have me murder thee beyond thy death?
Unjustly scandal thee with ravishment?

It was so far from rape, that heaven doth know,
If ever the first lovers, ere they fell,
Knew simply in the state of innocence,

Such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush.

Ger.

Ger. O! but my rarest Violanta, when
My lord Randulpho, brother to your father,
Shall understand this, how will he exclaim,

That my poor aunt and me, which his free alms
Hath nurs'd, since Milan by the duke of Mantua,
Who now usurps it, was surpriz'd that time
My father and my mother both were slain,
With my aunt's husband, as she says; their states
Despoil'd and seiz'd; 'tis past my memory,
But thus she told me: only thus I know,
Since I could understand, your honour'd uncle
Hath giv'n me all the liberal education

That his own son might look for, had he one;
Now will he say, dost thou requite me thus ?
O! the thought kills me.

Viol. Gentle, gentle Gerrard,

Be cheer'd, and hope the best. My mother, father,
And uncle, love me most indulgently,

Being the only branch of all their stocks:

But neither they, nor he thou would'st not grieve
With this unwelcome news, shall ever hear
Violanta's tongue reveal, much less accuse
Gerrard to be the father of his own.

I'll rather silent die, that thou may'st live
To see thy little offspring grow and thrive.

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,
Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones

Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it.

Alas, dear mother, you groan'd thus for me,
And yet how disobedient have I been!

Angel.