I cannot hold good rascal, let me kiss thee: Mos. Alas, sir, I but do, as I am taught; Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishmen£ Is avarice to itself! Mos. I, with our help, sir. Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with 'em, their limbs faint, And all turns air! Who's that there, now? a third? (Another knocks.) Mos. Close to your couch again: I hear his voice. It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. Volp. Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. Who's there? Corvino, a Merchant, enters. Mos. Signior Corvino! come most wisht for! O, How happy were you, if you knew it now! Coro. Why? what? wherein? Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. Corv. He is not dead? Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good; He knows no man. Corv. How shall I do then? Mos. Mos. Why, sir? Corv. I have brought him here a pearl. So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir: Is in his mouth is your pearl orient, sir? 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. Coro. How do you, sir? Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract. He cannot understand, his hearing's gone; And yet it comforts him to see you Coro. Say, I have a diamond for him too. Mos. Best shew't, sir, Put it into his hand; tis only there He apprehends: he has his feeling yet, See how he graps it! Corv. 'Las, good gentleman! How pitiful the sight is! Mos. Tut forget, sir. The weeping of an heir should still be laughter, Coro. Why, am I his heir? Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will, Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him, Should Should be executor! Corvino. And Through weakness, for consent: and sent home the others, Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry, and curse. 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, He's the true father of his family, In all, save me: but he has given 'em nothing. Coru. 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 close would once Those filthy eyes of your's, that flow with slime, Corv. Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the rain Ran down in streaks. Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out; You may be louder yet: a culvering Discharged in his ear, would hardly bore it, Corv. Cord. 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, Mos. Be so; It is your presence makes him last so long. Mos. No, sir, why? Why should you be thus scrupulous? 'Pray you, sir. Corv. Nay at your discretion. Mos. Well, good sir, he gone. Coro. I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you? Is not all here yours? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature, Corv. Grateful Mosca ! Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes. [Exit, Volp. My divine Mosca ! Thou hast to-day out gone thyself. THE THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE: BEING THE SECOND OF FOUR PLAYS, OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS, IN ONE. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT, Violanta, Daughter to a Nobleman of Milan, is with child by Gerrard, supposed to be of mean descent: an offence which by the laws of Milan is made capital to both parties, VIOLANTA. GERRARD. Viol. Why does my Gerrard grieve? It is not life (which by our Milan law My fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive; Of this your noble burthen from least hurt, (Being we are not married) your dear blood And can heaven think fit ye die for me? For Heaven's sake say I ravish'd you; I'll swear it, Viol. O Gerrard, thou art my life and faculties, It was so far from rape, that heaven doth know, Knew simply in the state of innocence, Such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush. Ger. |