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153

V O L P O N E,

O R,  T H E

F O X.

A   C O M E D Y.

First Acted in the Year 1605. By the KINGS MAJESTY'S Servants.

With the Allowance of the Master of REVELS.

The Author B. J.
Simul & jucunda, & idonea dicere vitζ.  Horat.

To the most N O B L E and most E Q U A L  S I S T E R S,

The two Famous Universities,

For their Love and Acceptance shewn to his P O E M in the P R E S E N T A T I O N,

B E N.  J O H N S O N,

The Grateful Acknowledger, Dedicates both It and Himself.

N
Ever (most Equal Sisters) had any Man a Wit so presently Excellent, as that it could raise it self; but there must come both Matter, Occasion, Commenders, and Favourers to it. If this be true, and that the Fortune of all Writers doth daily prove it, it behoves the Careful to provide well toward these Accidents; and, having acquir'd them, to preserve that part of Reputation most tenderly, wherein the Benefit of a Friend is also defended. Hence is it, that I now render my self grateful, and am studious to justifie the Bounty of your Act; to which, though your meer Authority were satisfying, yet it being an Age wherein Poetry and the Professors of it hear so ill on all Sides, there will a Reason be look't for in the Subject. It is certain, nor can it with any Forehead be oppos'd, that the too much Licence of Poetasters in this Time, hath much deform'd their Mistris; that, every day, their manifold and manifest Ignorance doth stick unnatural Reproaches upon her: But for their Petulancy, it were an Act of the greatest Injustice, either to let the Learned suffer, or so Divine a Skill (which indeed should not be attempted with unclean Hands) to fall under the least Contempt. For, if Men will impartially, and not asquint, look toward the Offices and Function of a Poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the Impossibility of any Man's being the good Poet, without first being a good Man. He that is said to be able to inform young Men to all good Disciplines, inflame grown Men to all great Vertues, keep old Men in their best and supream State, or as they decline to Childhood, recover them to their first Strength; that comes forth the Interpreter and Arbiter of Nature, a Teacher of Things Divine no less than Humane, a Master in Manners; and can alone (or with a few) effect the Business of Mankind: This, I take him, is no Subject for Pride and Ignorance to exercise their failing Rhetorick upon. But it will here be hastily answer'd, That the Writers of these Days are other Things; that not only their Manners, but their Natures are inverted, and nothing remaining with them of the Dignity of Poet, but the abused Name, which every Scribe usurps; that now, especially in Drammatick, or (as they term it) Stage-Poetry, nothing but Ribaldry, Prophanation, Blasphemy, all Licence of Offence to God and Man is practis'd. I dare not deny a great part of this, (and I am sorry I dare not) because in some Mens abortive Features (and would they had never boasted the Light) it is over-true: But that all are imbark'd in this bold Adventure for Hell, is a most uncharitable Thought, and, utter'd, a more malicious Slander. For my particular, I can (and from a most clear Conscience) affirm, That I have ever trembled to think toward the least Profaneness; have loathed the use of such foul and unwash'd Bawd'ry, as is now made the Food of the Scene: And, howsoever I cannot
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154

escape from some the Imputation of Sharpness, but that they will say, I have taken a pride, or lust, to be bitter, and not my youngest Instant but hath come into the World with all his Teeth; I would ask of these supercilious Politicks, What Nation, Society, or general Order or State I have provoked? What Publick Person? Whether I have not (in all these) preserv'd their Dignity, as mine own Person, safe? My Works are read, allow'd, (I speak of those are intirely mine) look into them: What broad Repoofs have I us'd? Where have I been particular? Where Personal? Except to a Mimick, Cheater, Bawd, or Buffon, Creatures (for their Insolencies) worthy to be tax'd? Yet to which of these so pointingly, as he might not either ingenuously have confest, or wisely dissembled his Disease? But it is not Rumour can make Men guilty, much less entitle me to other Mens Crimes. I know, that nothing can be so innocently writ or carried, but may be made obnoxious to Construction; marry, whilst I bear mine Innocence about me, I fear it not. Application is now grown a Trade with many; and there are that profess to have a Key for the decyphering of every thing: But let Wise and Noble Persons take heed how they be too credulous, or give leave to these invading Interpreters to be over-familiar with their Fames, who cunningly, and often, utter their own virulent Malice, under other Mens simplest Meanings. As for those that will (by Faults which Charity hath rak'd up, or common Honesty conceal'd) make themselves a Name with the Multitude, or (to draw their rude and beastly Claps) care not whose living Faces they intrench with their petulant Styles, may they do it without a Rival, for me: I chuse rather to live grav'd in Obscurity, than share with them in so preposterous a Fame. Nor can I blame the Wishes of those severe and wise Patriots, who providing the Hurts these licentious Spirits may do in a State, desire rather to see Fools and Devils, and those antick Relicks of Barbarism retriv'd, with all other ridiculous and exploded Follies, than behold the Wounds of Private Men, of Princes and Nations. For, as Horace makes Trebatius speak, among these,

——— Sibi quisque timet, quanquam est intactus, & odit.

And Men may justly impute such Rages, if continu'd, to the Writer, as his Spots. The Increase of which Lust in Liberty, together with the present Trade of the Stage, in all their Masc'line Enterludes, what Learned or Liberal Soul doth not already abhor? Where nothing but the Filth of Time is utter'd, and that with such impropriety of Phrase, such plenty of Solœcisms, such dearth of Sense, so bold Prolepses, so rack'd Metaphors, with Brothelry able to violate the Ear of a Pagan, and Blasphemy, to turn the Blood of a Christian to Water. I cannot but be serious in a Cause of this nature, wherein my Fame, and the Reputations of divers Honest and Learned are the Question; when a Name so full of Authority, Antiquity, and all great Mark, is (through their Insolence) become the lowest Scorn of the Age; and those Men subject to the Petulancy of every vernaculous Orator, that were wont to be the Care of Kings and happiest Monarchs. This it is that hath not only rap't me to present Indignation, but made me studious heretofore, and by all my Actions to stand off from them; which may most appear in this my latest Work (which you, most learned Arbitresses, have seen, judg'd, and to my Crown, approv'd) wherein I have labour'd, for their instruction and amendment, to reduce not only the ancient Forms, but Manners of the Scene, the Easiness, the Propriety, the Innocence, and last the Doctrine, which is the principal End of Poesie, to inform Men in the best Reason of living. And though my Catastrophe may, in the strict rigour of Comick Law, meet with Censure, as turning back to my Promise; I desire the Learned and Charitable Critick, to have so much faith in me, to think it was done of Industry: For, with what ease I could have varied it nearer his Scale (but that I fear to boast my own Faculty) I could here insert. But my special aim being to put the Snaffle in their Mouths, that cry out, we never punish Vice in our Enterludes, &c. I took the more liberty; though not without some Lines of Example, drawn even in the Ancients themselves, the Goings-out of whose Comœdies are not always joyful, but oft-times the Bawds, the Servants, the Rivals, yea, and the Masters, are mulcted; and fitly, it being the Office of a Comick Poet to imitate Justice, and instruct to Life, as well as Purity of Language, or stir up gentle Affections: To which I shall take the occasion elsewhere to speak. For the present (most Reverenced Sisters) as I have car'd to be thankful for your Affections past, and here made the Understanding acquainted with some Ground of your Favours; let me not despair their Continuance, to the maturing of some worthier Fruits: Wherein, if my Muses be true to me, I shall raise the despis'd Head of Poetry again, and stripping her out of those rotten and base Rags wherewith the Times have adulterated her Form, restore her to her primitive Habit, Feature, and Majesty, and render her worthy to be embraced and kist of all the Great and Master-Spirits of our World. As for the Vile and Slothful, who never affected an Act worthy of Celebration, or are so inward with their own vicious Natures, as they worthily fear her, and think it a high Point of Policy to keep her in contempt with their declamatory and windy Invectives; she shall out of just rage incite her Servants (who are Genus iritabile) to spout Ink in their Faces, that shall eat farther than their Marrow, into their Fames; and not Cinnamus the Barber, with his Art, shall be able to take out the Brands; but they shall live, and be read, till the Wretches die, as Things worst deserving of Themselves in chief, and then of all Mankind.


The PERSONS of the PLAY.

VOLPONE, a Magnifico.
MOSCA, his Parasite.
VOLTORE, an Advocate.
CORACCIO, an old Gentleman.
CORVINO, a Merchant.
AVOCATORI, four Magistrates.
NOTARIO, the Register.
NANO, a Dwarf.
CASTRONE, an Eunuch.
POLITICK WOULD-BE, a Knight.
PEREGRINE, a Gent. Traveller.
BONARIO, a young Gentleman.
FINE MADAM WOULD-BE, the Knight's Wife.
CELIA, the Merchant's Wife.
COMMANDADORI, Officers.
MERCATORI, three Merchants.
ANDROGYNO, a Hermaphrodite.
SERVITORE, a Servant.
GREGE.
 WOMEN.


The Scene V E N I C E.


The Principal C O M œ D I A N S were,

RIC. BURBADGE.
HEN. CONDEL
 WIL. SLY.
JOH. HEMINGS.
 JOH. LOWIN.
ALEX. COOKE.

V O L P O N E.


155
V O L P O N E,
O R,
The Fox.

T H E  A R G U M E N T.

V olpone, Childless, Rich, feigns Sick, despairs,
O ffers his State to Hopes of several Heirs,
L ies languishing: His Parasite receives
P resents of all, assures, deludes; then weaves
O ther cross Plots, which ope' themselves, are told.
N ew Tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: When bold,
E each tempts th' other again, and all are sold.

P R O L O G U E.

N
Ow, Luck yet send us, and a little Wit
   Will serve, to make our Play hit;
(According to the Palates of the Season)
   Here is Rhyme, not empty of Reason.
This we were bid to credit, from our Poet,
   Whose true Scope, if you would know it,
In all his Poems still hath been this Measure,
   To mix Profit with your Pleasure;
And not as some (whose Throats, their Envy failing)
   Cry hoarsly, All he writes is Railing:
And, when his Plays come forth, think they can flout them,
   With saying, He was a Year about them.
To these there needs no Lie, but this his Creature,
   Which was two Months since no Feature;
And, though he dares give them Five Lives to mend it,
   'Tis known, Five Weeks fully penn'd it;
From his own Hand, without a Co-adjutor,
   Novice, Journey-man, or Tutor.
Yet thus much I can give you, as a Token
   Of his Plays worth, No Eggs are broken,
Nor quaking Custards with fierce Teeth affrighted,
   Wherewith your Rout are so delighted;
Nor hales he in a Gull, old Ends reciting,
   To stop Gaps in his loose Writing;
With such a deal of monstrous and forc'd Action,
   As might make Beth'lem a Faction:
Nor made he his Play for Jests stol'n from each Table,
   But makes Jests to fit his Fable;
And so presents quick Comedy refined,
   As best Criticks have designed:
The Laws of Time, Place, Persons, he observeth,
   From no needful Rule he swerveth.
All Gall and Coppress from his Ink be draineth,
   Only a little Salt remaineth,
Wherewith he'll rub your Cheeks, till (Red with Laughter)
   They shall look fresh a Week after.

Act I.    Scene I.

Volpone, Mosca.

G
Ood Morning to the Day; and next, my Gold:
 Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint.
Hail the World's Soul, and mine! More glad than is

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The teeming Earth to see the long'd-for Sun
Peep through the Horns of the Celestial Ram,
Am I, to view thy Splendor, darkning his;
That lying here, amongst my other Hoards,
Shew'st like a Flame by Night, or like the Day
Struck out of Chaos, when all Darkness fled
Unto the Center. O thou Son of Sol,
(But brighter than thy Father) let me kiss,
With Adoration, thee, and every Relick
Of sacred Treasure in this blessed Room.
Well did wise Poets by thy glorious Name
Title that Age which they would have the best;
Thou being the best of Things, and far transcending
All Style of Joy, in Children, Parents, Friends,
Or any other waking Dream on Earth.
Thy Looks when they to Venus did ascribe,
They should have given her Twenty thousand Cupids;
Such are thy Beauties and our Loves! Dear Saint,
Riches, the dumb God, that giv'st all Men Tongues,
That canst do naught, and yet mak'st Men do all things;
The Price of Souls; even Hell, with thee to boot,
Is made worth Heav'n. Thou art Vertue, Fame,
Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee,
He shall be Noble, Valiant, Honest, Wise —
   Mos. And what he will, Sir. Riches are in Fortune
A greater Good, than Wisdom is in Nature.
   Vol. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory
More in the cunning Purchase of my Wealth,
Than in the glad Possession, since I gain
No common way; I use no Trade, no Venture;
I wound no Earth with Plow-shares, I fat no Beasts
To feed the Shambles; have no Mills for Iron,
Oyl, Corn, or Men, to grind 'em into Powder:
I blow no subtil Glass, expose no Ships
To Threatnings of the furrow-faced Sea;
I turn no Monies in the Publick Bank,
Nor Usure Private.   Mos. No, Sir, nor devour
Soft Prodigals. You shall ha' some will swallow
A melting Heir as glibly as your Dutch
Will Pills of Butter, and ne'er purge for't;
Tear forth the Fathers of poor Families
Out of their Beds, and Coffin them alive
In some kind clasping Prison, where their Bones
May be forth-coming, when the Flesh is rotten:
But your sweet Nature doth abhor these Courses;
You loath the Widows or the Orphans Tears
X 2                                               Should            


156 The Fox.                     

Should wash your Pavements, or their piteous Cries
Ring in your Roofs, and beat the Air for Vengeance.
   Vol. Right, Mosca, I do loath it.   Mos. And besides, Sir,
You are not like a Thresher, that doth stand
With a huge Flail, watching a Heap of Corn,
And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest Grain,
But feeds on Mallows, and such bitter Herbs;
Nor like the Merchant, who hath fill'd his Vaults
With Romagnia, and rich Candian Wines,
Yet drinks the Lees of Lombards Vinegar:
You will not lie in Straw, whilst Moths and Worms
Feed on your sumptuous Hangings and soft Beds.
You know the Use of Riches, and dare give now
From that bright Heap, to me, your poor Observer,
Or to your Dwarf, or your Hermaphrodite,
Your Eunuch, or what other Houshold Trifle
Your Pleasure allows Maint'nance — Vol. Hold thee, Mosca,
Take of my Hand; thou strik'st on Truth in all,
And they are envious term thee Parasite.
Call forth my Dwarf, my Eunuch, and my Fool,
And let 'em make me sport. What should I do,
But cocker up my Genius, and live free
To all Delights my Fortune calls me to?
I have no Wife, no Parent, Child, Allie,
To give my Substance to; but whom I make
Must be my Heir; and this makes Men observe me:
This draws new Clients daily to my House,
VVomen and Men, of every Sex and Age,
That bring me Presents, send me Plate, Coin, Jewels,
VVith hope that when I die (which they expect
Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Ten-fold upon them; whilst some, covetous
Above the rest, see to engross me whole,
And counter-work the one unto the other,
Contend in Gifts, as they would seem in Love:
All which I suffer, playing with their Hopes,
And am content to coin 'em into Profit,
And look upon their Kindness, and take more,
And look on that; still bearing them in hand,
Letting the Cherry knock against their Lips,
And draw it by their Mouths, and back again. How now!

Act I.    Scene II.

Nano, Androgyno, Castrone, Volpone, Mosca.

N
Ow room for fresh Gamesters, who do will you to know,
 They do bring you neither Play, nor University Show;
And therefore do entreat you, that whatsoever they rehearse,
   May not fare a whit the worse, for the false Pace of the Verse.
If you wonder at this, you will wonder more e're we pass;
   For know, here is inclos'd the Soul of Pythagoras,
That Juggler Divine, as hereafter shall follow;
   Which Soul (fast and loose, Sir) came first from Apollo,
And was breath'd into Ζthalides, Mercurius his Son,
   Where it had the Gift to remember all that ever was done.
From thence it fled forth, and made quick Transmigration
   To Goldy-lockt Euphorbus, who was kill'd in good fashion,
At the Siege of old Troy, by the Cuckold of Sparta.
   Hermotimus was next (I find it in my Charta)
To whom it did pass, where no sooner it was missing,
   But with one Pyrrhus of Delos it learn'd to go a fishing;
And thence did it enter the Sophist of Greece.
   From Pythagore, she went into a beautiful Piece,
Hight Aspasia, the Meretrix; and the next Toss of her
   Was again of a Whore she became a Philosopher,
Crates the Cynick, (as it self doth relate it)
   Since Kings, Knights, and Beggars, Knaves, Lords, and Fools gat it,
Besides Ox and Ass, Camel, Mule, Goat, and Brock,
   In all which it hath spoke, as in the Cobler's Cock.
But I come not here to discourse of that Matter,
   Or his One, Two, or Three, or his great Oath, By Quater,
His Musicks, his Trigon, his Golden Thigh,
   Or his telling how Elements shift; but I

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Would ask, how of late thou hast suffered Translation,
   And shifted thy Coat in these Days of Reformation?
And. Like one of the Reformed, a Fool, as you see,
   Counting all old Doctrine Heresie.
Nan. But not on thine own forbid Meats hast thou ventur'd?
   And. On Fish, when first a Carthusian I enter'd.
Nan. Why, then thy dogmatical Silence hath left thee?
   And. Of that an obstreperous Lawyer bereft me.
Nan. O wonderful Change! When Sir Lawyer forsook thee,
   For Pythagore's sake, what Body then took thee?
And. A good dull Moyl.   Nan. And how! by that means
   Thou wert brought to allow of the eating of Beans?
And. Yes.   Nan. But from the Moyl into whom didst thou pass?
   And. Into a very strange Beast, by some Writers call'd an Ass;
By others, a precise, pure, illuminate Brother,
   Of those devour Flesh, and sometimes one another;
And will drop you forth a Libel, or a sanctified Lie,
   Betwixt every Spoonful of a Nativity-Pie.
Nan. Now quit thee, for Heaven, of that profane Nation,
   And gently report thy next Transmigration.
And. To the same that I am.   Nan. A Creature of Delight?
   And (what is more than a Fool) an Hermaphrodite?
Now prithee, sweet Soul, in all thy Variation,
   Which Body would'st thou chuse, to keep up thy Station?
And. Troth, this I am in; even here would I tarry.
   Nan. 'Cause here the Delight of each Sex thou canst vary?
And. Alas, those Pleasures be stale and forsaken;
   No, 'tis your Fool wherewith I am so taken,
The only one Creature that I can call Blessed;
   For all other Forms I have prov'd most distressed.
Nan. Spoke true, as thou wert in Pythagoras still.
   This learned Opinion we celebrate will,
Fellow Eunuch, (as behoves us) with all our Wit and Art,
   To dignifie that whereof our selves are so great and special a Part.
   Vol. Now very, very pretty: Mosca, this
VVas thy Invention?   Mos. If it please my Patron,
Not else.   Vol. It doth, good Mosca.   Mos. Then it was, Sir.

S O N G.                  
F
Ools, they are the only Nation
 Worth Mens Envy or Admiration;
Free from Care, or Sorrow-taking,
Selves and others merry making:
All they speak or do is Sterling.
Your Fool he is your Great Man's Darling,
And your Ladies Sport and Pleasure;
Tongue and Bable are his Treasure.
E'en his Face begetteth Laughter,
And he speaks Truth free from Slaughter;
He's the Grace of every Feast,
And sometimes the Chiefest Guest;
Hath his Trencher and his Stool,
When Wit waits upon the Fool.
O, who would not be                            
He, he, he?                            

One knocks without.                
   Vol. VVho's that? Away, look, Mosca.
   Mos. Fool, be gone, 'tis Signior Voltore the Advocate,
I know him by his Knock.   Vol. Fetch me my Gown,
My Furs, and Night-caps; say, my Couch's changing:
And let him entertain himself a while
VVithout i' th' Gallery. Now, now, my Clients
Begin their Visitation! Vulture, Kite,
Raven, Gorcrow, all my Birds of Prey,
That think me turning Carcass, now they come:
I am not for 'em yet. How now? the news?
   Mos. A piece of Plate, Sir.
   Vol. Of what bigness?   Mos. Huge,
Massie, and Antique, with your Name inscib'd,inscrib'd
And Arms engraven.   Vol. Good! and not a Fox
Stretcht on the Earth, with fine delusive Sleights,
Mocking a gaping Crow? ha, Mosca?   Mos. Sharp, Sir.
   Vol. Give me my Furs. VVhy dost thou laugh so, Man?
Mos. I                                 


             The Fox. 157

   Mos. I cannot chuse, Sir, when I apprehend
What thoughts he has (without) now, as he walks:
That this might be the last gift he should give;
That this would fetch you; if you died to day,
And gave him all, what he should be too morrow;
What large return would come of all his venters;
How he should worship'd be, and reverenc'd;
Ride, with his Furs, and Foot-clothes; waited on
By herds of Fools, and Clients; have clear way
Made for his moile, as letter'd as himself;
Be call'd the great, and learned Advocate:
And then concludes, there's naught impossible.
   Vol. Yes, to be learned, Mosca.   Mos. O, no: rich
Implies it. Hood an Ass with reverend Purple,
So you can hide his two ambitious Ears,
And he shall pass for a cathedral Doctor.
   Vol. My Caps, my Caps, good Mosca; fetch him in.
   Mos. Stay, Sir, your Ointment for your Eyes.
   Vol. That's true;
Dispatch, dispatch: I long to have possession
Of my new Present.   Mos. That, and thousands more,
I hope, to see you Lord of.   Vol. Thanks, kind Mosca.
   Mos. And that, when I am lost in blended dust,
And hundred such as I am, in succession ——
   Vol. Nay, that were too much, Mosca.
   Vos.Mos. You shall live,
Still, to delude these Harpies.   Vol. Loving Mosca,
'Tis well, my Pillow now, and let him enter.
Now, my fain'd Cough, my Phthisick, and my Gout,
My Apoplexy, Palsie, and Catarhs,
Help, with your forced Functions, this my posture,
Wherein, this three year, I have milk'd their hopes.
He comes, I hear him (uh, uh, uh, uh) O.

Act I.    Scene III.

Mosca, Voltore, Volpone.

Y
OU still are, what you were, Sir. Only you
 (Of all the rest) are he, commands his love:
And you do wisely, to preserve it thus,
With early visitation, and kind notes
Of your good meaning to him, which, I know,
Cannot but come most grateful. Patron, Sir,
Here's Signior Voltore is come — Volp. What say you?
   Mos. Sir, Signior Voltore is come, this morning,
To visit you.   Volp. I thank him.   Mos. And hath brought
A piece of antique Plate, bought of S. Mark,
With which he here presents you.   Volp. He is welcome.
Pray him, to come more often   Mos. Yes.
   Volt. What says he?
   Mos. He thanks you, and desires you see him often.
   Volp. Mosca.   Mos. My Patron?
   Volp. Bring him near, where is he?
I long to feel his hand.   Mos. The Plate is here, Sir.
   Volt. How fare you, Sir?
   Volp. I thank you, Signior Voltore,
Where is the Plate? mine Eyes are bad.   Volt. I'm sorry,
To see you still thus weak.   Mos. That he is not weaker.
   Volp. You are too munificent.
   Volt. No, Sir, would to Heaven,
I could as well give health to you, as that Plate.
   Volp. You give, Sir, what you can. I thank you. Your love
Hath taste in this, and shall not be un-answer'd.
I pray you see me often.   Volt. Yes, I shall, Sir.
   Volp. Be not far from me.
   Mos. Do you observe that, Sir?
   Volp. Harken unto me still: It will concern you.
   Mos. You are a happy Man, Sir, know your good.
   Volp. I cannot now last long ——
   (Mos. You are his Heir, Sir.
   Volt. Am I?)   Volp. I feel me going, (uh, uh, uh, uh.)
I am sailing to my Port, (uh, uh, uh, uh?)
And I am glad, I am so near my Haven.

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   Mos. Alas, kind Gentleman, well, we must all go —
   Volt. But Mosca — Mos. Age will conquer.
   Volt. 'Pry thee, hear me.
Am I inscrib'd his Heir, for certain?   Mos. Are you?
I do beseech you, Sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me i' your Family. All my hopes,
Depend upon your worship. I am lost,
Except the rising Sun do shine on me.
   Volt. It shall both shine, and warnwarm thee, Mosca.
   Mos. Sir,
I am a Man, that have not done your love
All the worst Offices: here I wear your Keys,
See all your Coffers, and your Caskets lockt,
Keep the poor Inventory of your Jewels,
Your Plate, and Moneys; I'm your Steward, Sir,
Husband your Goods here.   Volt. But am I sole Heir?
   Mos. Without a Partner, Sir, confirm'd this morning;
The Wax is warm yet, and the Ink scarce dry
Upon the Parchment.   Volt. Happy, happy, me!
By what good chance, sweessweet Mosca?
   Mos. Your desert, Sir;
I know no second cause.   Volt. Thy modesty
Is loth to know it; well, we shall requite it.
   Mos. He ever lik'd your course, Sir; that first took him.
I oft have heard him say, how he admir'd
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things meer contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be Law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And re-turn; make knots, and undo them;
Give forked Counsel; take provoking Gold
On either hand, and put it up: these Men,
He knew, would thrive, with their humility.
And (for his part) he thought, he should be blest
To have his Heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a Tongue,
And loud withal, that could not wag, nor scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your Worship but lets fall, is a Cecchine!
[Another knocks.

Who's that? one knocks, I would not have you seen, Sir.
And yet — pretend you came, and went in haste;
I'll fashion an excuse. And, gentle Sir,
When you do come to swim; in golden Lard,
Up to the Arms, in Hony, that your Chin
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the Flood,
Think on your Vassal; but remember me:
I ha' not been your worst of Clients.   Volt. Mosca ——
   Mos. When will you have your Inventory brought, Sir?
Or see a Copy of the Will? (anon)
I'll bring 'em to you, Sir. Away, be gone
Put business i' your Face.   Volp. Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.   Mos. Keep you still, Sir.
Here is Corbaccio.   Volp. Set the Plate away,
The Vulture's gone, and the old Raven's come.

Act I.    Scene IV.

Mosca, Corbaccio, Volpone.

B
Etake you, to your silence, and your sleep:
 Stand there, and multiply. Now, shall we see
A wretch who is (indeed) more impotent,
Than this can fain to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his Grave. Signior Corbaccio!
Yo' are very welcome, Sir.
   Corb. How do's your Patron?
   Mos. Troth, as he did, Sir; no amends.
   Corb. What? mends he?
   Mos. No, Sir: he is rather worse.
   Corb. That's well. Where is he?
   Mos. Upon his Couch, Sir, newly fall'n asleep.
   Corb. Do's he sleep well?
   Mos. No wink, Sir, all this Night,
Nor


158 The Fox.                     

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 my self
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. I, his last sleep, if he would take it.   Mos. Sir,
He has no faith in Physick.   Corb. 'Say you? 'say you?
   Mos. He has no faith in Physick: he do's think,
Most of your Doctors are the greater danger,
And worse 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 license, as a Judge.   Mos. Nay, more;
For he but kills, Sir, where the Law condemns,
And these can kill him too.   Corb. I, or me;
Or any Man. How do's his Apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?   Mos. Most violent.
His Speech is broken, and his Eyes are set,
His Face drawn longer, than 'twas wont ——
   Corb. How? how?
Stronger, than he was wont?   Mos. No, Sir: his Face
Drawn longer than 'twas wont.   Corb. O, good.
   Mos. His Mouth
Is ever gaping, and his Eye-lids hang.   Corb. Good.
   Mos. A freezing numness 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 Rhume,
Forth the resolved corners of his Eyes.
   Corb. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha!
How do's 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 breaths.
   Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall out-last him:
This makes me young again, a score of Years.
   Mos. I was a 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.
What then did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?
   Mos. He smelt a Carcass, 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,
VVill quite weigh down his Plate.
   Mos. Yea, marry, Sir.
This is true Physick, this your sacred Medicine;
No talk of Opiates, to this great Elixir.

[column break]

   Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
'Mos.' omittedIt shall be minister'd to him, in his Bowle?
   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. VVhat?   Mos. To recover him.
   Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means.
   Mos. VVhy, Sir, this
VVill 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 your self that wrong, Sir. I
VVill 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.   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 VVill; 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 days 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 meer 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. 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 your self a good —
   Corb. But multiplied it on my Son.   Mos. 'Tis right, Sir.
   Corb. Stil, my invention.   Mos. 'Lass, Sir, Heaven knows,
It hath been all my study, all my care,
(I' e'en grow grey withal) 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 restor'd 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,


             The Fox. 159

   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 Oyl into their Ears: and send them hence.
   Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment
Is avarice, to it self?   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 Palsie, fains himself
Younger, by scores of Years, flatters his Age,
With confident belying it, hopes he may
VVith Charms, like Ζson, have his Youth restor'd:
And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate
VVould be as easily cheated on, as he,
And all turns Air! VVho'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. VVho's there?

Act I.    Scene V.

Mosca, Corvino, Volpone.

S
Ignior 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?
   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. H's here, Sir,
And he has brought you a rich Pearl.
   Corv. How do you, Sir?
Tell him, it doubles the twelf 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 grasps it!   Corv. 'Las, good Gentleman!
How pittiful 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 be Executor? Corvino. And,
To any question, he was silent too,
I still interpreted the nods, he made
(Through weakness) for consent: and sent home th' others,
Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry, and curse.

[column break]

   Corv. O, my dear Mosca. Do's he not perceive us?
[They embrace.

   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 Beggers,
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;
H'is the true Father of his Family,
In all, save me: but he has giv'en '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 shewer, 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 be gone.   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.
   Cor. 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 shalt share in all my Fortunes.
   Mos. Excepting one.   Corv. What's that?
   Mos. Your gallant Wife, Sir.
Now, is he gone: we had no other means,
To shoot him hence, but this,   Volp. My divine Mosca!
Thou hast to day out-gone thy self. Who's there?
[Another knocks.

I will be troubled with no more. Prepare
Me Musick, Dances, Banquets, all Delights;
The Turk is not more sensual in his Pleasures,
Than will Volpone. Let me see, a Pearl?
A Diamant? Plate? Cecchines? good mornings purchase;
Why, this is better than rob Churches, yet:
Or fat, by eating (once a Month) a Man.
VVho is't.   Mos. The beauteous Lady Would-bee, Sir,
VVife to the English Knight, Sir Politique Would-bee,
(This is the stile, Sir, is directed me)
Hath sent to know, how you have slept to night,
And if you would be visited.   Volp. Not, now.
Some three hours hence. —
   Mos. I told the Squire so much.
   Volp. When I am high with Mirth, and Wine: then, then.
'Fore Heaven, I wonder at the desperate valour
Of the bold English, that they dare let loose
Their VVives, to all encounters!   Mos. Sir, this Knight
Had not his name for nothing, he is politique,
And knows, how ere his VVife affect strange Airs,
She


160 The Fox.                     

She hath not yet the Face to be dishonest:
But had she Signior Corvino's Wives Face —
   Vol. Has she so rare a Face?   Mos. O, Sir, the Wonder,
The Blazing Star of Italy! A Wench
O' the first Year! a Beauty ripe as Harvest!
Whose Skin is whiter than a Swan all over!
Than Silver, Snow, or Lillies! a soft Lip,
Would tempt you to eternity of Kissing!
And Flesh that melteth in the touch to Blood!
Bright as your Gold, and lovely as your Gold!
   Volp. Why had not I known this before?
   Mos. Alas, Sir — My self but yesterday discover'd it.
   Volp. How might I see her?   Mos. O, not possible;
She's kept as warily as in your Gold,
Never does come abroad, never takes Air,
But at a Window. All her Looks are sweet,
As the first Grapes or Cherries, and are watch'd
As neer as they are.   Volp. I must see her — Mos. Sir,
There is a Guard of ten Spies thick upon her,
All his whole Houshold; each of which is set
Upon his Fellow, and have all their Charge;
When he goes out, when he comes in, examin'd.
   Volp. I will go see her, though but at her Window.
   Mos. In some Disguise then.   Volp. That is true: I must
Maintain mine own Shape still the same: We'll think.


Act II.    Scene I.

Politick Would-be, Peregrine.

S
Ir, to a wise Man all the World's his Soil.
 It is not Italy, nor France, nor Europe,
That must bound me, if my Fates call me forth.
Yet, I protest, it is no salt Desire
Of seeing Countries, shifting a Religion,
Nor any disaffection to the State
Where I was bred (and unto which I owe
My dearest Plots) hath brought me out; much less
That idle, antick, stale, grey-headed Project
Of knowing Mens Minds and Manners, with Ulysses:
But a peculiar Humour of my Wifes,
Laid for this height of Venice, to observe,
To quote, to learn the Language, and so forth —
I hope you travel, Sir, with License.   Per. Yes.
   Pol. I dare the safelier converse — How long, Sir,
Since you left England?   Per. Seven Weeks.   Pol. So lately!
You ha' not been with my Lord Ambassador?
   Per. Not yet, Sir.
   Pol. Pray you, what News, Sir, vents our Climate?
I heard last night a most strange thing reported
By some of my Lord's Followers, and I long
To hear how 'twill be seconded.   Per. What was't, Sir?
   Pol. Marry, Sir, of a Raven that should build
In a Ship Royal of the King's.   Per. This Fellow,
Does he gull me, trow? or is gull'd? Your Name, Sir?
   Pol. My Name is Politick Would-be.
   Per. O, that speaks him. A Knight, Sir?
   Pol. A poor Knight, Sir.   Per. Your Lady
Lies here in Venice, for Intelligence
Of Tires, and Fashions, and Behaviour,
Among the Courtezans? the Fine Lady Would-be?
   Pol. Yes, Sir, the Spider and the Bee, oft-times,
Suck from one Flower.   Per. Good Sir Politick,
I cry you mercy; I have heard much of you:
'Tis true, Sir, of your Raven.   Pol. On your knowledg?
   Per. Yes, and your Lion's Whelping in the Tower.
   Pol. Another Whelp!
   Per. Another, Sir.   Pol. Now, Heaven!
What Prodigies be these? The Fires at Berwick!
And the new Star! These things concurring, strange!
And full of Omen! Saw you these Meteors?
   Per. I did, Sir.

[column break]

   Pol. Fearful! Pray you, Sir, confirm me,
Were there three Porpoises seen above the Bridge,
As they give out?   Per. Six, and a Sturgeon, Sir.
   Pol. I am astonish'd.   Per. Nay, Sir, be not so;
I'll tell you a greater Prodigy than these ——
   Pol. VVhat should these things portend!
   Per. The very day
(Let me be sure) that I put forth from London,
There was a VVhale discover'd in the River,
As high as Wolwich, that had waited there
(Few know how many Months) for the Subversion
Of the Stode-Fleet.   Pol. Is't possible? Believe it,
'Twas either sent from Spain, or the Archdukes!
Spinola's VVhale, upon my Life, my Credit!
VVill they not leave these Projects? VVorthy Sir,
Some other News.   Per. Faith, Stone the Fool is dead,
And they do lack a Tavern-fool extreamly.
   Pol. Is Mass' Stone dead.
   Per. He's dead, Sir; why? I hope
You thought him not Immortal? O, this Knight
(VVere he well known) would be a precious thing
To fit our English Stage: He that should write
But such a Fellow, should be thought to feign
Extremely, if not maliciously.   Pol. Stone dead!
   Per. Dead. Lord! how deeply, Sir, you apprehend it?
He was no Kinsman to you?   Pol. That I know of.
VVell! that same Fellow was an unknown Fool.
   Per. And yet you knew him, it seems?   Pol. I did so. Sir,
I knew him one of the most dangerous Heads
Living within the State, and so I held him.
   Per. Indeed, Sir?   Pol. VVhile he liv'd, in action.
He has receiv'd weekly Intelligence,
Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries,
(For all Parts of the VVorld) in Cabbages;
And those dispens'd again to Ambassadors,
In Oranges, Musk-melons, Apricots,
Limons, Pomecitrons, and such-like; sometimes
In Colchester-Oysters, and your Selsey-Cockles.
   Per. You make me wonder!
   Pol. Sir, upon my knowledge.
Nay, I have observ'd him, at your Publick Ordinary,
Take his Advertisement from a Traveller
(A conceal'd Statesman) in a Trencher of Meat;
And instantly, before the Meal was done,
Convey an Answer in a Tooth-pick.   Per. Strange!
How could this be, Sir?   Pol. VVhy, the Meat was cut
So like his Character, and so laid, as he
Must easily read the Cypher.   Per. I have heard,
He could not read, Sir.   Pol. So 'twas given out
(In politie) by those that did employ him:
But he could read, and had your Languages,
And to't, as sound a Noodle — Per. I have heard, Sir,
That your Babiouns were Spies, and that they were
A kind of subtle Nation, near to China.
   Pol. I, I, your Mamuluchi. Faith, they had
Their Hand in a French Plot or two; but they
VVere so extremely given to VVomen, as
They made discovery of all: Yet I
Had my Advices here (on Wednesday last)
From one of their own Coat, they were return'd,
Made their Relations, (as the Fashion is)
And now stand fair for fresh Employment.   Per. 'Heart!
This Sir Pol. will be ignorant of nothing.
It seems, Sir, you know all?   Pol. Not all, Sir: But
I have some general Notions: I do love
To note, and to observe; though I live out
Free from the active Torrent, yet I'ld mark
The Currents and the Passages of Things,
For mine own private use; and know the Ebbs
And Flows of State.   Per. Believe it, Sir, I hold
My self in no small tie unto my Fortunes,
For casting me thus luckily upon you,
VVhose Knowledge (if your Bounty equal it)
May do me great Assistance, in Instruction
For


             The Fox. 161

For my Behaviour, and my bearing, which
Is yet so rude, and raw — Pol. Why? came you forth
Empty of Rules, for travail?   Per. Faith, I had
Some common ones, from out that vulgar Grammar,
Which he, that cry'd Italian to me, taught me.
   Pol. Why, this it is, that spoyls all our brave Bloods,
Trusting our hopeful Gentry unto Pedants,
Fellows of out-side, and meer bark. You seem
To be a Gentleman, of ingenious Race —
I not profess it, but my fate hath been
To be, where I have been consulted with,
In this high kind, touching some great Mens Sons,
Persons of Blood, and Honour —— Per. Who be
      these, Sir?

Act II.    Scene II.

Mosca, Politique, Peregrine, Volpone, Nano, Grege.
u

Nder that Window, there't must be. The same.
   Pol. Fellows, to mount a Bank! did your Instructer
In the dear Tongues, never discourse to you
Of the Italian Mountebanks?   Per. Yes, Sir.   Pol. Why,
Here shall you see one.   Per. They are Quack-salvers,
Fellows, that live by venting Oyls, and Drugs?
   Pol. Was that the Character he gave you of them?
   Per. As I remember.   Pol. Pitty his ignorance.
They are the only knowing Men of Europe!
Great general Schollars, excellent Physicians,
Most admir'd States-men, profest Favourites,
And Cabinet-Counsellors to the greatest Princes!
The only languag'd Men of all the World!
   Per. And, I have heard, they are most lewd Impostors;
Made all of Terms and Shreds; no less belyers
Of great Mens favours, than their own vile Med'cines;
Which they will utter upon monstrous Oaths:
Selling that drug, for Two-pence, e're they part,
VVhich they have valu'd at Twelve Crowns, before.
   Pol. Sir, Calumnies are answer'd best with silence:
Your self shall judge. VVho is it mounts, my Friends?
   Mos. Scoto of Mantua, Sir.   Pol. Is't he? nay, then
I'll proudly promise, Sir, you shall behold
Another Man, than has been phant'sied to you.
I wonder, yet, that he should mount his Bank,
Here in this Nook, that has been wont t' appear
In Face of the Piazza! Here, he comes.
   Volp. Mount, Zany.   Gre. Follow, follow, follow,
      follow, follow.
   Pol. See how the People follow him! he's a Man
May write 10000 Crowns in Bank here. Note,
Mark but his Gesture: I do use to observe
The state he keeps, in getting up!   Per. 'Tis worth it, Sir.
   Volp. Most noble Gent. and my worthy Patrons, it may
seem strange, that I, your Scoto Mantuano, who was ever
wont to fix my Bank in Face of the publick Piazza, near
the shelter of the Portico, to the Procuratia, should now
(after Eight Months absence, from this Illustrious City of Ve-
nice) humbly retire my self, into an obscure Nook of the Piazza.
   Pol. Did not I, now, object the same!   Per. Peace, Sir.
Volp. Let me tell you: I am not (as your Lombard Proverb
saith) cold on my Feet; or content to part with my Commo-
dities at a cheaper rate, than I accustomed: look not for it.
Nor that the calumnious reports of that impudent Detractor,
and shame to our Profession, (Alessandro Buttone, I mean)
who gave out, in publick, I was condemn'd a' Sforzato to the
Galleyes, for poysoning the Cardinal Bembo's —— Cook, hath
at all attached, much less dejested me. No, no, worthy Gent.
(to tell you true) I cannot indure to see the Rabble of these
ground Ciarlitani, that spred their Clokes on the Pavement,
as if they meant to do feats of activity, and then come in
lamely, with their mouldy Tales out of Boccacio, like stale
Tabarine, the Fabulist: some of them discoursing their Tra-
vels, and of their tedious Captivity in the Turks Galleys,
when indeed (were the truth known) they were the Chri-

[column break]

stians Gallies, where very temp'rately they eat Bread, and
drunk Water as a wholsom Penance (enjoyn'd them by their
Confessors) for base Pilferies.
   Pol. Note but his bearing, and contempt of these.
Volp. These Turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousie-fartical Rogues,
with one poor Groats-worth of unprepar'd Antimony, finely
wrapt up in several Scartoccios, are able, very well, to
kill their twenty a Week, and play; yet, these meager
starv'd Spirits, who have half stopt the Organs of their Minds
with Earthy oppilations, want not their Favourers among
your shrivel'd, sallad-eating Artizans: who are overjoy'd,
that they may have their Half-pe'rth of Physick, though it
purge 'em into another World, 't makes no matter.
   Pol. Excellent! ha' you heard better Language, Sir?
Volp. Well, let 'em go. And Gentlemen, honourable Gentle-
men, know, that for this time, our Bank, being thus remov'd
from the Clamours of the Canaglia, shall be the Scene of
Pleasure and Delight: For, I have nothing to sell, little or
nothing to sell.
   Pol. I told you, Sir, his end.   Per. You did so, Sir.
Volp. I protest, I, and my six Servants are not able to make
of this pretious Liquor, so fast, as it is fetch'd away from my
Lodging by Gentlemen of your City; strangers of the Terra-
ferma; worshipful Merchants; I, and Senators too: who, e-
ver since my arrival, have detained me to their uses, by their
splendidous Liberalities. And worthily. For, what avails
your rich Man to have his Magazines stuft with Moscadelly,
or of the purest grape, when his Physicians prescribe him (on
pain of death) to drink nothing but Water, cocted with Ani-
seeds? O, health! health! the blessing of the Rich! the Riches
of the Poor! who can buy thee at too dear a rate, since there
is no enjoying this World without thee? Be not then so spa-
ring of your Purses, honourable Gentlemen, as to abridge the
natural course of Life ——
   Per. You see his end?   Pol. I, is't not good?
Volp. For, when a humid Flux, or Catarrh, by the muta-
bility of Air, falls from your Head into an Arm or Shoulder,
or any other part; take you a Duckat, or your Cecchine of
Gold, and apply to the place affected: see, what good effect it
can work. No, no, 'tis this blessed Unguento, this rare ex-
traction, that hath only power to disperse all malignant Hu-
mours, that proceed, either of hot, cold, moist, or windy
Causes ——
   Per. I would he had put in dry to.   Pol. 'Pray you,
observe.
Volp. To fortifie the most indigest and crude Stomack, I
were it of one that (through extream weakness) vomited
Blood, applying only a warm Napkin to the Place, after the
Unction and Fricace; for the Vertigine, in the Head, putting
but a drop into your Nostrils, likewise, behind the Ears; a
most soveraign and approved Remedy: the Mal-caduco,
Cramps, Convulsions, Paralysies, Epilepsies, Tremor-cordia,
retired Nerves, ill Vapours of the Spleen, stopping of the
Liver, the Stone, the Strangury, Hernia ventosa, Iliaca
passio; stops a Disenteria immediately; easeth the Torsion
of the small Guts; and cures Melancholia Hypocondri-
aca, being taken and applyed, according to my printed Re-

Pointing
to his Bill
and his
Glass.
ceipt. For, this is the Physician, this the Me-
dicine; this Counsels, this Cures; this gives the
Direction, this works the Effect: and (in sum) both
together may be term'd an abstract of the Theorick
and Practick in the Ζsculapian Art. 'Twill cost
you Eight Crowns. And, Zan Fritada, pr'y thee sing a
Verse extempore in Honour of it.
   Pol. How do you like him, Sir?   Per. Most strangely, I!
   Pol. Is not his Language rare?   Per. But Alchimy,
I never heard the like: or Broughtons Books.

S O N G.

H
Ad old Hippocrates, or Galen,
 (That to their Books put Med'cines all in)
But known this Secret, they had never
(Of which they will be guilty ever)
Y                                  Been                     


162 The Fox.                     

Been murderers of so much Paper,
Or wasted many a hurtless taper:
No Indian drug had e're been famed,
Tabacco, Sassafras not named;
Ne yet, of Guacum one small stick, Sir,
Nor Raymund Lullies great Elixir.
Ne, had been known the Danish Gonswart.
Or Paracelsus, with his long Sword.

   Per. All this, yet, will not do; Eight Crowns is high.
Volp. No more. Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse
to you the miraculous effects of this my Oyl, surnamed oglio
del Scoto; with the countless Catalogue of those I have
cured of th' aforesaid, and many more Diseases; the Pat-
tents and Priviledges of all the Princes and Commonwealths
of Christendom; or but the dispositions of those that appear'd
on my part, before the Signiory of the Sanitβ, and most
learned Colledge of Physitians; where I was authorized, upon
notice taken of the admirable Vertues of my Medicaments, and
mine own Excellency, in matter of rare and unknown Se-
crets, not only to disperse them publickly in this famous
City, but in all the Territories, that happily joy under the
Government of the most pious and magnificent States of Italy.
But may some other gallant Fellow say, O, there be divers
that make profession to have as good, and as experiment-
ed Receipts as yours: Indeed, very many have assay'd, like
Apes in imitation of that, which is really and essentially in me,
to make of this Oyl; bestow'd great cost in Furnaces, Stills,
Alembecks, continual Fires, and preparation of the Ingredients,
(as indeed there goes to it Six hundred several simples, be-
sides, some quantity of human Fat, for the conglutination,
which we buy of the Anatomists) but, when these Practitioners
come to the last decoction, blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies
in fumo: ha, ha, ha. Poor Wretches! I rather pitty their Folly
and Indiscretion, than their loss of Time and Money; for those
may be recovered by industry: but to be a Fooll born is a Dis-
ease incurable. For my self, I always from my youth have
endeavour'd to get the rarest Secrets, and book them; either
in exchange or for Money: I spared nor cost, nor labour, where
any thing was worthy to be learned. And Gentlemen, ho-
nourable Gentlemen, I will undertake (by vertue of Chymical
Art) out of the honourable Hat thotthat covers your Head, to ex-
tract the Four Elements; that is to say, the Fire, Air, Wa-
ter, and Earth, and return you your Felt without burn or stain.
For, whilst others have been at the Balloo, I have been at my
Book: and am now past the craggy Paths of Study, and come
to the flowry Plains of Honour and Reputation.
   Pol. I do assure you, Sir, that is his aim.
   Volp. But, to our price.   Per. And that withal, Sir Pol.
   Volp. You all know, (honourable Gentlemen) I never va-
lu'd this Ampulla, or Villa, at less than Eight Crowns; but
for this time, I am content to be depriv'd of it for six; Six
Crowns is the price; and less in courtesie I know you cannot
offer me: take it or leave it, howsoever, both it and I am
at your service. I ask you not as the value of the thing, for
then I should demand of you a thousand Crowns, so the Car-
dinals Montalto, Fernese, the great Duke of Tuscany, my
Gossip, with divers other Princes have given me; but I de-
spise Money: only to shew my affection to you, Honourable
Gentlemen, and your illustrious State here, I have neglected
the Messages of these Princes, mine own Offices, fram'd my
Journey hither, only to present you with the Fruits of my Travels,
Tune your Voyces once more to the touch of your Instruments, and
give the honourable Assembly some delightful Recreation.
   Per. VVhat monstrous and most painful Circumstance
Is here, to get some three or four Gazets!
Some Three-pence i'th' whole, for that 'twill come to.

S O N G.

Y
Ou that would last long, list to my Song,
 Make no more coyl, but buy of this Oyl.
Would you be ever fair and young?
Stout of Teeth; and strong of Tongue?

[column break]

Tart of Palat? quick of ear?
Sharp of sight? of Nostril clear?
Moist of Hand? and light of Foot?
(Or I will come nearer to't)
Would you live free from all Diseases?         
Do the act, your Mistris pleases;
Yea fright all Aches from your Bones?
Here's a Med'cine for the Nones.

   Volp. Well, I am in a humour (at this time) to make a
Present of the small quantity my Coffer contains: to the Rich
in Courtesie, and to the poor, for Gods sake. Wherefore now
mark; I ask'd you Six Crowns; and Six Crowns, at
other times, you have paid me; you shall not give me Six
Crowns, nor Five, nor Four, nor Three, nor Two, nor One;
nor half a Duckat; no, nor a muccinigo: Six — pence it will
cost you, or Six hundred Pound — expect no lower price, for by
the Banner of my Front, I will not bate a bagatine, that I
will have only a Pledge of your Loves, to carry something
from amongst you, to shew, I am not contemn'd by you. There-
fore, now, toss your Handkerchiefs, chearfully, chearfully; and
be advertised, that the first heroick Spirit, that deigns to
grace me, with a Handkerchief, I will give it a little remem-
brance of something, beside, shall please it better, than if I had
presented it with a double Pistolet.
   Per. VVill you be that heroick Spark, Sir Pol?
   O, see! the VVindow has prevented you.
[Celia at the Window throws down her Handkerchief.

Volp. Lady, I kiss your Bounty; and for this timely Grace you
have done your poor Scoto of Mantua, I will return you over
and above my Oyl, a Secret of that high and inestimable Na-
ture, shall make you for ever enamour'd on that Minute,
wherein your Eye first descended on so mean (yet not altoge-
ther to be despis'd) an Object. Here is a Poulder conceal'd in
this Paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, Nine
thousand Volumns were but as one Page, that Page as a Line,
that Line as a word: so short is this Pilgrimage of Man (which
some call Life) to the expressing of it. Would I reflect on the
price? why, the whole World were but as an Empire, that
Empire as a Province, that Province as a Bank, that Bank as
a private Purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you; It is
the Poulder that made Venus a Goddess (given her by Apollo)
that kept her perpetually young, clear'd her Wrincles, firm'd her
Gums, fill'd her Skin, colour'd her Hair; from her deriv'd to
Helen, and at the sack of Troy (unfortunately) lost: till now,
in this our Age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious Anti-
quary, out of some Ruins of Asia, who sent a Moyety of it
to the Court of France (but much sophisticated) wherewith
the Ladies there, now, colour their Hair. The rest (at this
present) remains with me; extracted to a quintessence: so that,
where-ever it but touches, in Youth it perpetually preserves, in
Age restores the Complexion; seats your Teeth, did they dance
like virginal Jacks, firm as a Wall; makes them white as I-
vory, that were black as ———

Act II.    Scene III.

Corvino, Politique, Peregrine.

S
Pight o' the Devil, and my shame! come down, here;
 Come down: no House but mine to make your Scene?
Signior Flaminio, will you down, Sir? down?
VVhat is my VVife your Franciscina? Sir?
No VVindows on the whole Piazza, here,
To make your Properties, but mine? but mine?
Heart! ere to morrow I shall be new christen'd,
And call'd the Pantalone Di Besogniosi,
About the Town.   Per. VVhat should this mean, Sir Pol?
   Pol. Some trick of State, believe it. I will home.
   Per. It may be some design, on you.   Pol. I know not.
I'll stand upon my Guard.   Per. 'Tis your best, Sir.
   Pol. This three VVeeks, all my Advices, all my Letters,
They have been intercepted.   Per. Indeed, Sir?
Best have a care.   Pol. Nay, so I will.   Per. This Knight,
I may not lose him, for my mirth, till night.
Act


             The Fox. 163

Act II.    Scene IV.

Volpone, Mosca.

O
, I am wounded.   Mos. Where, Sir?   Vol. Not without;
 Those blows were nothing: I could bear them ever.
But angry Cupid, bolting from her Eyes,
Hath shot himself into me like a Flame;
Where, now, he flings about his burning heat,
As in a Furnace, some ambitious Fire,
Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me.
I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca;
My Liver melts, and I, without the hope
Of some soft Air, from her refreshing breath,
Am but a heap of Cindars.   Mos. 'Lass, good Sir,
Would you had never seen her.   Volp. Nay, would thou
Hadst never told me of her.   Mos. Sir, 'tis true;
I do confess I was unfortunate,
And you unhappy: but I'am bound in Conscience,
No less than Duty, to effect my best
To your release of torment, and I will, Sir.
   Volp. Dear Mosca, shall I hope?   Mos. Sir, more than dear,
I will not bid you to despair of ought,
Within a human compass.   Volp. O, there spoke
My better Angel. Mosca, take my Keys,
Gold, Plate, and Jewels, all's at thy Devotion;
Employ them how thou wilt; nay, Coyn me too:
So thou, in this, but Crown my Longings. Mosca?
   Mos. Use but your patience.   Volp. So I have.   Mos. I
      doubt not
To bring success to your desires.   Volp. Nay, then,
I not repent me of my late disguise.
   Mos. If you can horn him, Sir, you need not.   Volp. True:
Besides, I never meant him for my Heir.
Is not the colour o' my Beard and Eye-brows
To make me known?   Mos. No jot.   Volp. I did it well.
   Mos. So well, would I could follow you in mine,
With half the Happiness; and yet I would
Escape your Epilogue.   Volp. But, were they gull'd
With a belief that I was Scoto?   Mos. Sir,
Scoto himself could hardly have distinguish'd!
I have not time to flatter you, now, we'll part:
And as I prosper, so applaud my Art.

Act II.    Scene V.

Corvino, Celia, Servitore.

D
Eath of mine Honour, with the Cities Fool?
 A Juggling, Tooth-drawing, prating Mountebank?
And at a publik Window? where, whilst he,
With his strain'd Action, and his dole of Faces,
To his Drug-lecture draws your itching Ears,
A Crew of old, un-married, noted Lechers,
Stood leering up like Satyrs: and you smile
Most graciously! and fan your Favours forth,
To give your hot Spectators satisfaction!
What, was your Mountebank their Call? their Whistle?
Or were you' enamour'd on his Copper Rings?
His Saffron Jewel, with the Toad-stone in't?
Or his imbroydered Sute, with the Cope-stitch,
Made of a Herse-cloth? or his old Tilt-feather?
Or his starch'd Beard? well! you shall have him, yes:
He shall come home, and Minister unto you
The Fricace for the Moother.Mother Or, let me see,
I think you' had rather mount? would you not mount?
Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truly, you may:
And so, you may be seen, down to th' Foot.
Get you a Cittern, Lady Vanity,
And be a dealer with the Vertuous Man;
Make one: I'll but protest my self a Cuckold,
And save your Dowry. I am a Dutchman, I!
For, if you thought me an Italian,

[column break]

You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you Whore:
Thou'ldst tremble, to imagine, that the murder
Of Father, Mother, Brother, all thy Race,
Should follow, as the Subject of my Justice!
   Cel. Good Sir, have patience!   Corv. What couldst
      thou propose
Less to thy self, than in this heat of Wrath,
And stung with my dishonour, I should strike
This Steel into thee, with as many stabs,
As thou wert gaz'd upon with Goatish Eyes?
   Cel. Alas, Sir, be appeas'd! I could not think
My being at the Window should more, now,
Move your impatience, than at other times.
   Corv. No? not to seek and entertain a Parle,
With a known Knave? before a Multitude?
You were an Actor with your Handkerchief!
Which he, most sweetly, kist in the Receipt,
And might (no doubt) return it with a Letter,
And point the Place, where you might meet: your Sisters,
Your Mothers, or your Aunts might serve the turn.
   Cel. Why, dear Sir, when do I make these Excuses?
Or ever stir abroad, but to the Church?
And that so seldom — Corv. Well, it shall be less;
And thy restraint before was Liberty,
To what I now decree: and therefore mark me.
First, I will have this bawdy Light dam'd up;
And till't be done, some two or three Yards off,
I'll chalk a Line: o're which, if thou but chance
To set thy desp'rate Foot; more Hell, more Horror,
More wild remorseless Rage shall seize on thee,
Than on a Conjurer, that had heedless left
His circles safety ere his Devil was laid.
Then here's a Lock, which I will hang upon thee;
And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards;
Thy Lodging shall be backward; thy walks backwards;
Thy Prospect-all be backwards; and no pleasure,
That thou shalt know but backwards: Nay, since you force
My honest nature, know, it is your own
Being too open, makes me use you thus.
Since you will not contain your subtil Nostrils
In a sweet Room, but they must snuff the Air
Of rank and sweaty Passengers —— One knocks.
[Knock within.

Away, and be not seen, pain of thy Life;
Not look toward the Window: if thou dost ——
(Nay stay, hear this) let me not prosper, Whore,
But I will make thee an Anatomy,
Dissect thee mine own self, and read a Lecture
Upon thee, to the City, and in publick.
Away. Who's there?   Ser. 'Tis Signior Mosca, Sir.

Act II.    Scene VI.

Corvino, Mosca.

L
Et him come in, his Master's dead: There's yet
 Some good, to help the bad. My Mosca, welcom,
I guess your news.   Mos. I fear you cannot, Sir.
   Corv. Is't not his death?   Mos. Rather the contrary.
   Corv. Not his recovery?   Mos. Yes, Sir.   Corv. I am curs'd,
I am bewitch'd, my Crosses meet to vex me.
How? how? how? how?   Mos. Why, Sir, with Scoto's Oyl!
Corbaccio, and Voltore brought of it,
VVhilst I was busie in an inner Room ——
   Corv. Death! that damn'd Mountebank! but, for the Law
Now, I could kill the Rascal: 't cannot be,
His Oyl should have that Vertue. Ha' not I
Known him a common Rogue, come fidling in
To th' Osteria, with a tumbling VVhore,
And, when he has done all his forc'd tricks, been glad
Of a poor spoonful of dead VVine, with Flies in't?
It cannot be. All his Ingredients
Are a Sheeps Gall, a rosted Bitches Marrow,
Some few sod Earwigs, pounded Caterpillers,
Y 2                                 A                     


164 The Fox.                     

A little Capons Grease, and Fasting Spittle:
I know 'em to a Dram.   Mos. I know not, Sir,
But some on't, there, they powr'd into his Ears,
Some in his Nostrils, and recover'd him;
Applying but the fricace.   Corv. Pox o' that fricace.
   Mos. And since, to seem the more officious
And flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had
(At extream Fees) the Colledge of Physicians
Consulting on him, how they might restore him;
Where one would have a Cataplasm of Spices,
Another a flayd Ape clapt to his Breast,
A third would ha' it a Dog, a fourth an Oyl
With wild Cats Skins: at last, they all resolv'd
That, to preserve him, was no other means,
But some young Woman must be straight sought out,
Lusty and full of Juice, to sleep by him;
And, to this Service (most unhappily,
And most unwillingly) am I now imploy'd,
Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with,
For your advice, since it concerns you most,
Because, I would not do that thing might cross
Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, Sir:
Yet, if I do it not, they may delate
My slackness to my Patron, work me out
Of his Opinion; and there, all your hopes,
Ventures, or whatsoever, are all frustrate.
I do but tell you, Sir. Besides, they are all
Now striving, who shall first present him. Therefore —
I could intreat you, briefly, conclude somewhat:
Prevent 'em if you can.   Corv. Death to my hopes!
This is my villanous Fortune! Best to hire
Some common Curtezan?   Mos. I, I thought on that, Sir.
But they are all so subtil, full of Art,
And age again doting and flexible,
So as —— I cannot tell —— we may perchance
Light on a Quean, may cheat us all.   Corv. 'Tis true.
   Mos. No, no: it must be one, that has no tricks, Sir,
Some simple thing, a Creature made unto it;
Some Wench you may command. Ha' you no Kinswoman?
Gods so — Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, Sir.
One o' the Doctors offer'd there, his Daughter.
   Corv. How!   Mos. Yes, Signior Lupo, the Physician.
   Cor. His Daughter?   Mos. And a Virgin, Sir. Why? Alass,
He knows the state of's Body, what it is;
That nought can warm his Blood, Sir, but a Fever;
Nor any incantation raise his Spirit:
A long forgetfulness hath seiz'd that part.
Besides, Sir, who shall know it? some one or two —
   Corv. I prythee give me leave. If any Man
But I had had this luck —— The thing in't self,
I know, is nothing —— Wherefore should not I
As well command my Blood and my Affections,
As this dull Doctor? In the point of Honour,
The Cases are all one of Wife and Daughter.
   Mos. I hear him coming.   Corv. She shall do't: 'Tis done.
Slight, if this Doctor, who is not engag'd,
Unless't be for his Counsel (which is nothing)
Offer his Daughter, what should I, that am
So deeply in? I will prevent him, Wretch!
Covetous Wretch! Mosca, I have determin'd.
   Mos. How, Sir?   Corv. VVe'll make all sure. The
      Party, you wot of,
Shall be mine own Wife, Mosca.   Mos. Sir. The thing,
(But that I would not seem to counsel you)
I should have motion'd to you at the first:
And make your count, you have cut all their Throats.
Why! 'tis directly taking a possession!
And, in his next Fit, we may let him go.
'Tis but to pull the Pillow from his Head,
And he is thratled: 't had been done, before,
But for your scrupulous Doubts.   Corv. I, a plague on't,
My Conscience Fools my Wit. Well, I'll be brief,
And so be thou, lest they should be before us:
Go home, prepare him, tell him, with what zeal,

[column break]

And willingness, I do it; swear it was,
On the first hearing (as thou maist do, truely)
Mine own free motion.   Mos. Sir, I warrant you,
I'll so possess him with it, that the rest
Of his starv'd Clients shall be banisht all;
And only you receiv'd. But come not, Sir,
Until I send, for I have something else
To ripen, for your good (you must not know't)
   Corv. But do not you forget to send now.   Mos. fear not.

Act II.    Scene VII.

Corvino, Celia.

W
Here are you, Wife? my Celia? Wife? what
      blubbering?
Come, dry those Tears. I think thou thoughtest me in
      earnest?
Ha? by this light, I talk'd so but to try thee.
Me-thinks, the lightness of the occasion
Should ha' confirm'd thee. Come, I am not jealous.
   Cel. No?   Corv. Faith, I am not, I, nor never was:
It is a poor unprofitable Humour.
Do not I know if Women have a Will,
They'll do 'gainst all the watches o' the VVorld?
And that the fiercest Spies are tam'd with Gold?
Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't:
And see, I'll give thee cause too, to believe it.
Come, kiss me. Go, and make thee ready straight,
In all thy best Attire, thy choicest Jewels,
Put 'em all on, and, with 'em, thy best Looks:
VVe are invited to a solemn Feast,
At old Volpone's, where it shall appear
How far I'am free, from jealousie or fear.


Act III.    Scene I.

Mosca.

I
 Fear, I shall begin to grow in love
 VVith my dear self, and my most prosp'rous Parts,
They do so spring, and burgeon; I can feel
A whimsie i' my Blood: (I know not how)
Success hath made me wanton. I could skip
Out of my Skin, now, like a subtil Snake,
I am so limber. O! Your Parasite
Is a most precious thing, dropt from above,
Not bred 'mongst Clods and Clot-pouls, here on Earth.
I muse, the Mystery was not made a Science,
It is so liberally profest! almost
All the wise world is little else, in Nature,
But Parasites, or Sub-parasites. And, yet,
I mean not those that have your bare Town-art,
To know, who's fit to feed 'em; have no House,
No Family, no Care, and therefore mould
Tales for Mens Ears, to bait that Sense; or get
Kitchin-invention, and some stale Receipts
To please the Belly, and the Groin; nor those,
VVith their Court-dog-tricks, that can fawn and fleer,
Make their Revenue out of Legs and Faces
Eccho my Lord, and lick away a Moth:
But your fine elegant Rascal, that can rise,
And stoop (almost together) like an Arrow,
Shoot through the Air as nimbly as a Star?
Turn short, as doth a Swallow; and be here,
And there, and here, and yonder all at once;
Present to any Humour, all Occasion;
And change a Visor, swifter than a Thought!
This is the Creature had the Art born with him;
Toils not to learn it, but doth practise it
Out of most excellent Nature: and such Sparks
Are the true Parasites, others but their Zani's

Act


             The Fox. 165

Act III.    Scene II.

Mosca, Bonario.

W
Ho's this? Bonario? old Corbaccio's Son?
 The Person I was bound to seek. Fair Sir,
You are happily met.   Bon. That cannot be by thee.
   Mos. Why, Sir?   Bon. Nay, prythee know thy way,
      and leave me:
I would be loath to interchange Discourse,
With such a Mate as thou art.   Mos. Courteous Sir,
Scorn not my Poverty.   Bon. Not I, by Heaven:
But thou shalt give me leave to hate thy baseness.
   Mos. Baseness?   Bon. I answer, me, is not thy sloth
Sufficient Argument? thy flattery?
Thy means of feeding?   Mos. Heaven, be good to me.
These Imputations are too common, Sir,
And easily struck on Vertue, when she's poor;
You are unequal to me, and how ere
Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are not,
That ere you know me, thus, proceed in Censure:
St. Mark bear witness 'gainst you, 'tis inhuman.
   Bon. What? does he weep? the sign is soft, and good!
I do repent me, that I was so harsh.
   Mos. 'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessity,
I am enforc'd to eat my careful Bread
With too much obsequy; 'tis true, beside,
That I am fain to spin mine own poor Rayment,
Out of my meer observance, being not born
To a free Fortune: but that I have done
Base Offices, in rendring Friends asunder,
Dividing Families, betraying Counsels,
Whispering false Lyes, or mining Men with Praises,
Train'd their Credulity with Perjuries,
Corrupted Chastity, or am in love
VVith mine own tender ease, but would not rather
Prove the most rugged, and laborious course,
That might redeem my present estimation;
Let me here perish, in all hope of goodness.
   Bon. This cannot be a personated Passion!
I was to blame, so to mistake thy Nature;
Prythee forgive me: and speak out thy business.
   Mos. Sir, it concerns you; and though I may seem,
At first to make a main offence in Manners,
And in my gratitude, unto my Master;
Yet, for the pure love, which I bear all right,
And hatred of the wrong, I must reveal it.
This very hour, your Father is in purpose
To disinherit you — Bon. How!   Mos. And thrust you forth,
As a meer stranger to his Blood; 'tis true, Sir:
The work no way ingageth me, but, as
I claim an Interest in the general state
Of Goodness and true Vertue, which I hear
T' abound in you: and, for which meer respect,
VVithout a second aim, Sir, I have done it.
   Bon. This tale hath lost thee much of the late trust,
Thou hadst with me; it is impossible:
I know not how to lend it any thought,
My Father should be so unnatural.
   Mos. It is a confidence, that well becomes
Your Piety; and form'd (no doubt) it is
From your own simple Innocence: which makes
Your wrong more monstrous and abhor'd. But, Sir,
I now will tell you more. This very Minute,
It is, or will be doing: And, if you
Shall be but pleas'd to go with me, I'll bring you,
(I dare not say where you shall see, but) where
Your Ear shall be a witness of the Deed;
Hear your self written Bastard: and profest
The common Issue of the Earth.   Bon. I'm maz'd!
   Mos. Sir, if I do it not, draw your just Sword,
And score your vengeance, on my front and Face;
Mark me your Villain: You have too much wrong,

[column break]

And I do suffer for you, Sir. My Heart
Weeps Blood in anguish — Bon. Lead. I follow thee.

Act III.    Scene III.

Volpone, Nano, Androgyno, Castrone.

M
Osca stays long methinks. Bring forth your sports
 And help to make the wretched time more sweet.
   Nan. Dwarf, Fool, and Eunuch, well met here we be.
   A question it were not, whether of us three,
Being all the known delicates of a rich Man,
   In pleasing him, claim the Precedency can?
Cas. I claim for my self.   And. And, so doth the Fool.
   Nan. 'Tis foolish indeed: let me set you both to School.
First, for your Dwarf, he's little and witty,
   And every thing, as it is little, is pritty;
Else why do Men say to a Creature of my shape,
   So soon as they see him, it's a pretty little Ape?
And why a pretty Ape? but for pleasing imitation
   Of greater Mens Actions, in a ridiculous fashion.
Beside, this feat Body of mine doth not crave
   Half the Meat, Drink, and Cloth, one of your bulks will have.
Admit your Fools Face be the Mother of laughter,
   Yet, for his Brain, it must always come after:
And though that do feed him, it's a pitiful Case,
   His Body is beholding to such a bad Face.
   Volp. Who's there? my Couch, away, look, Nano, see:
[One knoks.

Give me my Caps, first — go, enquire. Now, Cupid
Send it by Mosca, and with fair return.
   Nan. It is the beauteous Madam — Volp. Would-be — is it?
   Nan. The same.   Volp. Now' torment on me; Squire her in:
For she will enter, or dwell here for ever.
Nay, quickly, that my Fit were past. I fear
A second Hell too, that my loathing this
Will quite expel my Appetite to the other:
Would she were taking now her tedious leave.
Lord how it threats me what I am to suffer.

Act III.    Scene IV.

Lady, Volpone, Nano, Women. 2.

I
 Thank you, good Sir. 'Pray you signifie
 Unto your Patron, I am here. This Band
Shews not my Neck enough (I trouble you, Sir,
Let me request you, bid one of my Women
Come hither to me) in good faith, I am drest
Most favourably, to day; it is no matter,
'Tis well enough. Look, see, these petulant things!
How they have done this!   Volp. I do feell the Fever
Entring in at mine Ears; O, for a Charm,
To fright it hence.   Lad. Come nearer: is this Curl
In his right Place? or this? why is this higher
Than all the rest? you ha' not wash'd your Eyes, yet?
Or do they not stand even i' your Head?
Where's your fellow? call her.   Nan. Now. St. Mark
Deliver us: anon, she'll beat her Women,
Because her Nose is red.   Lad. I pray you, view
This Tire, forsooth: are all things apt or no?
   Wom. One Hair a little, here, sticks out, forsooth.
   Lad. Dos't so forsooth? and where was your dear sight
When it did so forsooth? what now? Bird-ey'd?
And you too? 'pray you both approach, and mend it.
Now (by that light) I muse, yo'are not asham'd!
I, that have preach'd these things, so oft, unto you,
Read you the Principles, argu'd all the Grounds,
Disputed every fitness, every grace,
Call'd you to counsel of so frequent dressings —
   (Nan. More carefully, than of your Fame or Honour)
   Lad. Made you acquainted, what an ample Dowry
The knowledg of these things would be unto you,
Able, alone, to get you Noble Husbands
At                        


166 The Fox.                     

At your return: and you thus to neglect it?
Besides, you seeing what a curious Nation
Th' Italians are, what will they say of me?
The English Lady cannot dress her self;
Here's a fine Imputation to our Countrey!
Well, go your ways, and stay i' the next Room.
This fucus was too course too, it's no matter.
Good-Sir, you'll give 'em entertainment?
   Volp. The Storm comes toward me.   Lad. How dos
      my Volp?
   Volp. Troubled with noise, I cannot sleep; I dreamt
That a strange Fury entred, now, my House,
And, with the dreadful tempest of her Breath,
Did cleave my Roof asunder.   Lad. Believe me, and I
Had the most fearful Dream, could I remember't —
   Volp. Out on my fate; I ha' given her the occasion
How to torment me: she will tell me hers.
   Lad. Me thought, the Golden mediocrity
Polite, and delicate — Volp. O, if you do love me,
No more; I sweat, and suffer, at the mention
Of any Dream: feell how I tremble yet.
   Lad. Alas, good Soul! the Passion of the Heart.
Seed-pearl were good now, boild with Syrrup of Apples,
Tincture of Gold, and Corral, Citron-Pills,
Your Elicampane Root, Myrobalanes ——
   Volp. Ay me, I have tane a Grass-hopper by the Wing.
   Lad. Burnt Silk, and Amber, you have Muscadel
Good i' the House — Volp. You will not drink, and part?
   Lad. No, fear not that. I doubt, we shall not get
Some English Saffron (half a Dram would serve)
Your sixteen Cloves, a little Musk, dri'd Mints,
Bugloss, and Barly-meal — Volp. She's in again;
Before I fain'd Diseases, now I have one.
   Lad. And these appli'd, with a right Scarlet-cloth —
   Volp. Another Flood of words! a very Torrent!
   Lad. Shall I, Sir, make you a Poultise?   Volp. No, no, no,
I'm very well: you need prescribe no more.
   Lad. I have a little studdied Physick; but now,
I'm all for Musick save, i' the Forenoons,
An hour or two for painting. I would have
A Lady, indeed, t' have all, Letters, and Arts,
Be able to discourse, to write, to paint,
But principal (as Plato holds) your Musick
(And so does wise Pythagoras, I take it)
Is your true Rapture; when there is consent
In Face, in Voyce, and Clothes: and is indeed,
Our Sexes chiefest Ornament.   Volp. The Poet,
As old in time as Plato, and as knowing,
Says that our highest Female grace is silence.
   Lad. Which o' your Poets? Petrarch? or Tasso? or Dante?
Guerrini? Ariosto? Aretine?
Cieco di Hadria? I have read them all.
   Volp. Is every thing a Cause to my destruction?
   Lad. I think, I ha' two or three of 'em about me!
   Volp. The Sun, the Sea will sooner both stand still,
Than her eternal Tongue! nothing can scape it.
   Lad. Here's Pastor Fido — Volp. Profess obstinate silence;
That's now my safest.   Lad. All our English Writers,
I mean such as are happy in th' Italian,
Will deign to steal out of this Author, mainly;
Almost as much, as from Montagnie:
He has so modern and facile a Vein,
Fitting the time, and catching the Court-ear;
Your Petrarch is more passionate, yet he,
In days of sonnetting, trusting 'em, with much:
Dante is hard, and few can understand him.
But, for a desperate wit, there's Aretine!
Only, his Pictures are a little obscene ——
Your mark me not?   Volp. Alas, my Mind's perturb'd.
   Lad. Why, in such Cases, we must cure our selves,
Make use of our Philosophy — Volp. O'y me.
   Lad. And, as we find our Passions do rebel,
Encounter 'em with Reason; or divert 'em,
By giving scope unto some other Humour

[column break]

Of lesser danger: as, in Politick Bodies,
There's nothing, more, doth over-whelm the Judgment,
And clouds the Understanding, than too much
Settling, and fixing, and (as 'twere) subsiding
Upon one Object. For the incorporating
Of these same outward things, into that part,
Which we call mental, leaves some certain fζces,
That stop the Organs, and, as Plato says,
Assassinates our knowledg.   Volp. Now, the Spirit
Of patience help me.   Lad. Come, in faith, I must
Visit you more adays; and make you well:
Laugh and be lusty.   Volp. My good Angels save me.
   Lad. There was but one sole Man in all the VVorld,
VVith whom I ere could sympathise; and he
VVould lye you often, three, four Hours together,
To hear me speak: and be (sometime) so rap't,
As he would answer me quite from the purpose,
Like you, and you are like him, just. I'll discourse
(And't be but only, Sir, to bring you asleep)
How we did spend our time, and loves, together,
For some six years.   Volp. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
   Lad. For we were coζtanei, and brought up ——
   Volp. Some power, some fate, some Fortune rescue me.

Act III.    Scene V.

Mosca, Lady, Volpone.

G
Od save you, Madam.   Lad. Good Sir.   Volp. Mosca!
      welcom,
VVelcom to my redemption.   Mos. VVhy, Sir?   Volp. Oh,
Rid me of this my torture, quickly, there;
My Madam, with the everlasting Voyce:
The Bells in time of Pestilence, ne'er made
Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion!
The Cock-pit comes not neer it. All my House,
But now, steam'd like a Bath, with her thick Breath.
A Lawyer could not have been heard; nor scarce
Another VVoman, such a hail of words
She has let fall. For Hells sake, rid her hence.
   Mos. Has she presented?   Volp.