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 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.

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. I, 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 shew him this.

If

Corb. Good, good.

Mos. 'Tis better yet,

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.

Corb. Published me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him
Corb. I.

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 e'en grow grey with all) how to work things
Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

Mos. You are he,

For whom I labour, here.

Corb. I, do, do, do:

I'll straight about it.

Mos. Rook go with you, raven.

Corb. I know thee honest.

Mos. You do lie, sir

Corb. And

Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. Corb. I do not doubt to be a father to thee.

Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing.

Corb. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why not? Mos. Your worship is a precious ass

Corb. What saist thou?

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.
Corb. "Tis done, 'tis done, I go.

Volp. O, I shall burst;

Let out my sides, let out my sides

Mos. Contain

Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope
Is such a bait it covers any hook.

Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it!

Z 2

[Exit.

I cannot

I cannot hold good rascal, let me kiss thee:
I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

Mos. Alas, sir, I but do, as I am taught;
Follow your grave instructions; give 'em words:
Pour oil into their ears: and send them hence.

Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment

Is avarice to itself!

Mos. I, with our help, sir.

Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age,

Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish

Can be more frequent with 'em, their limbs 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 live longer!
Feels not his gout, nor palsy, feigns himself
Younger by scores of years, flatters his
age,
With confident belying it, hopes he may
With charms, like son, have his youth restored:
And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate
Would be as easily cheated on as he:

And all turns air! Who's that there, now? a third?

(Another knocks.) Mos. Close to your couch again: I hear his voice.

It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.

Volp. Dead.

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

Corvino, a Merchant, enters.

Mos. Signior Corvino! come most wisht for! O, How happy were you, if you knew it now!

Corv. Why? what? wherein ?

Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir.

Corv. He is not dead?

Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good; He knows no man.

Corv. How shall I do then?

Mos.

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.

५

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

Corv. 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.

Corv. 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