You are but cruel; and I already have done Things great enough, All Rome hath been my slave;

The senate sat an idle looker-on,

And witness of my power; when I have blush'd More to command than it to suffer; all

The fathers have sat ready and prepared

To give me empire, temples, or their throats,
When I would ask 'em; and what crowns the top,
Rome, senate, people, all the world have seen
Jove, but my equal; Cæsar, but my second.
"Tis then your malice, Fates, who, but your own,
Envy and fear to have any power long known.

VOLPONE, OR THE FOX, A COMEDY: BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

VOLPONE, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is without children, feigns himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as pay their court to him in the expectation of becoming his heirs. Mosca, his knavish confederate, persuades each of these men in turn that he is named for the inheritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly presents.

VOLPONE, as on his death-bed. MOSCA. CORBACCIO, an old gentleman.

Mos. Signor Corbaccio!

You are very welcome, sir.

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.

Corb. What! mends he?

Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse.

Corb. That's well.

Where is he?

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep.

Corb. Does he sleep well?

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

Corb. Good! he should 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 myself

Stood by while it was made, saw all the ingredients: And know, it cannot but most gently work : My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. Volp. Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it. Mos. Sir,

He has no faith in physic.

Corb. Say you, say you?

Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think
Most of your doctors are the greatest danger,
A worse disease, to 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 them,
But gives them great reward; and he is loath
To hire his death, so.

Corb. It is true, they kill

With as much licence as a judge.

Mos. Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,
And these can kill him too.

Corb. Ay, or me;

Or any man. How does his apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?

IX.

145

K

Mos. Most violent.

His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer than 'twas wontCorb. How! how!

Stronger than he was wont ? Mos. No, sir: his face

Drawn longer than 'twas won't. Corb. O, good!

Mos. His mouth

Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.
Corb. Good.

Mos. A freezing numbness 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 rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is 't possible? yet I am better, ha!

How does 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 breathes. Corb. Excellent! excellent! sure I shall outlast him : This makes me young again, a score of years. Mos. I was coming for you, sir.

Corb. Has he made his will?

What has he given 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 carcase, sir, when he but heard
My master was about his testament;

As I did urge him to it for your good—
Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought so.
Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.
Corb. To be his heir?

Mos. I do not know, sir.
Corb. True:

I know it too.

Mos. By your own scale, sir.

Corb. Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca,

look,

Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate.

Mos. Yea, marry, sir.

This is true physic, this your sacred medicine;
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir !

Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.
Corb. 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.

Corb. I do conceive you.

This fit he shall recover.

Mos. And, on first advantage

Of his gain'd sense, will I reimportune him
Unto the making of his testament:

And show 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 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 enforce, as I will do,

Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers,
Your more than many gifts, your this day's present,
And last, produce your will; where, without
thought,

Or least regard, unto your proper issue,

A son so brave, and highly meriting,

The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you
Upon my master, and made him your heir;
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude-

Corb. He must pronounce me his ?

Mos. 'Tis true.

Corb. This plot