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?

Mo8. 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.

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 say'st thou ?

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

Volp. O, I shall burst;

go.

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!
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. Ay, 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, not palsy, feigns himself
Younger by scores of years, flatters his age,
With confident belying it, hopes he may
With charms, like Eson, 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!

[Exit.

(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. Why, sir?

Cory. 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.

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 feelings 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.

Cory. Why, am I his heir.

Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not show 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 be executor? Corvino.

To any question he was silent to,

And

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.

Corv. 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 yours 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.

Corv. His nose is like a common sewer, still running.

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.
Faith I could stifle him rarely with a pillow,
As well as any woman that should keep him.
Corv. Do as you will, but I'll begone.
Mos. Be so;

It is your presence makes him last so long.
Corv. I pray you use no violence.
Mos. No, sir; why?

Why should you be thus scrupulous? Pray you, sir.
Corv. Nay, at your discretion.

Mos. Well, good sir, be gone.

Corv. 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 shall share in all my fortunes.
Volp. My divine Mosca !

Thou hast to-day out gone thyself.

[Exit.

[Act i., Sc. 1.]

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE: BEING THE SECOND OF FOUR PLAYS, OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS, IN ONE. [PUBLISHED 1647: DATING PROBABLY FROM ABOUT 1608]. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT [1584-1616]

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 made 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