Volpone Or the Fox - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 [ASIDE.]: By your own scale, sir.
CORB: Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate.
MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir.
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine, No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!
CORB: 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
MOS: It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.
CORB: Ay, do, do, do.
MOS: Most blessed cordial!
This will recover him.
CORB: Yes, do, do, do.
MOS: I think it were not best, sir.
CORB: What?
MOS: To recover him.
CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means.
MOS: Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.
CORB: 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take my venture: Give me it again.
MOS: At no hand; pardon me: You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all.
CORB: How?
MOS: All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny.
CORB: How, how, good Mosca?
MOS: I'll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover.
CORB: I do conceive you.
MOS: And, on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament: And shew him this.
[POINTING TO THE MONEY.]
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 will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir.
CORB: And disinherit My son!
MOS: O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking.
CORB: O, but colour?
MOS: This will sir, you shall send it unto me.
Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do, Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, And last, produce your will; where, without thought, Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir: He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, But out of conscience, and mere grat.i.tude-
CORB: He must p.r.o.nounce 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: Publish'd me his heir?
MOS: And you so certain to survive him-
CORB: Ay.
MOS: Being so l.u.s.ty 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!