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Let out my sides, let out my sides
Volp. 0, but thy working, and thy placing it !
Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught;
ment Is avarice to itself !
Mos. Ay, with our help, sir.
Dolp. 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 : 20 Yet this is reckon'd life! Nay, here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! Feels not his gout, nor palsy ; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age, With confident belying it, hopes he may With charms, like Æson, have his youth restored : And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he : And all turns air ! Who's that there, now ? a third ?
[Another knocks. Mos. Close to your couch again : I hear his voice. It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.
31 Volp. Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes.
Corvino, a Merchant, enters.
Corv. Why? what? wherein ?
Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good ;
Cory. How shall I do then ?
Mos. Perhaps he has
Corv. Venice was never owner of the like. 10
Corv. How do you, sir ?
Mos. Best shew 't, sir,
Corv. 'Las, good gentleman !
Mos. Tut, forget, sir. The weeping of an heir should still be laughter, 30 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, 40 Whom he would have his heir ? Corvino. Who Should be executor? Corvino. And
To any question he was silent to,
and curse. Corv. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us ! Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows no
drunk : Knew you not that, sir ? 'Tis the common fable, The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his : He's the true father of his family, In all, save me : but he has given 'em nothing. Corv. That's well, that's well. Art sure he does
not hear us? Mos. Sure, sir ? why look you, credit your own
20 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
30 Ran down in streaks.
Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out ;
Corv. A very draught.
Mos. Pray you let me.
Corv. Do as you will, but I'll begone.
Mos. Be so ;
10 Mos. No, sir, why ? Why should you be thus scrupulous ? 'Pray you, sir,
Corv. Nay, at your discretion.
Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless
Corv. Grateful Mosca !
Volp. My divine Mosca !
CATILINE HIS CONSPIRACY: A TRAGEDY.
BY THE SAME.
The morning of the Conspiracy:-LENTULUS, CETHEGUS,
and CATILINE meet before the other Conspirators are ready.
Lent. It is methinks a morning full of fate. It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. She is not rosy-finger’d, but swoll'n black. Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 30 As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day.
It does not look as it would have a hail
Cet. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus : our coming
Cet. A fire in their beds and bosoms,
Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius,
Cet. Yes! as you, had I not call'd you.
Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour
Cet. If the gods had callid
Cat. Spirit of men !!