Volpone by Ben Jonson (small books to read .txt) 📕

MOS: And then to have it ravish’d from their mouths!

VOLP: ‘Tis true. I will have thee put on a gown, And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heir: Shew them a will; Open that chest, and reach Forth one of those that has the blanks; I’ll straight Put in thy name.

MOS [GIVES HIM A PAPER.]: It will be rare, sir.

VOLP: Ay, When they ev’n gape, and find themselves deluded—

MOS: Yes.

VOLP: And thou use them scurvily! Dispatch, get on thy gown.

MOS [PUTTING ON A GOWN.]: But, what, sir, if they ask After the body?

VOLP: Say, it was corrupted.

MOS: I’ll say it stunk, sir; and was fain to have it Coffin’d up instantly, and sent away.

VOLP: Any thing; what thou wilt. Hold, here’s my will. Get thee a cap, a count-book, pen and ink, Papers afore thee; sit as thou wert taking An inventory of parcels: I’ll get up Behind the curtain, on a stool, and hearken; Sometime peep over, see how they do look, With what degrees their blood doth leave their faces, O, ‘twill afford me a rare meal of laughter!

MOS [PUTTING ON A CAP, AND SETTING OUT THE TABLE, ETC.]: Your advocate will turn stark dull upon it.

VOLP: It will take off his oratory’s edge.

MOS: But your clarissimo, old round-back, he Will crump you like a hog-louse, with the touch.

VOLP: And what Corvino?

MOS: O, sir, look for him, To-morrow morning, with a rope and dagger, To visit all the streets; he must run mad. My lady too, that came into the court, To bear false witness for your worship—

VOLP: Yes, And kist me ‘fore the fathers; when my face Flow’d all with oils.

MOS: And sweat, sir. Why, your gold Is such another med’cine, it dries up All those offensive savours: it transforms The most deformed, and restores them lovely, As ‘twere the strange poetical girdle. Jove Could not invent t’ himself a shroud more subtle To pass Acrisius’ guards. It is the thing Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty.

VOLP: I think she loves me.

MOS: Who? the lady, sir? She’s jealous of you.

VOLP: Dost thou say so?

[KNOCKING WITHIN.]

MOS: Hark, There’s some already.

VOLP: Look.

MOS: It is the Vulture: He has the quickest scent.

VOLP: I’ll to my place, Thou to thy posture.

[GOES BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]

MOS: I am set.

VOLP: But, Mosca, Play the artificer now, torture them rarely.

[ENTER VOLTORE.]

VOLT: How now, my Mosca?

MOS [WRITING.]: “Turkey carpets, nine”—

VOLT: Taking an inventory! that is well.

MOS: “Two suits of bedding, tissue”—

VOLT: Where’s the Will? Let me read that the while.

[ENTER SERVANTS, WITH CORBACCIO IN A CHAIR.]

CORB: So, set me down: And get you home.

[EXEUNT SERVANTS.]

VOLT: Is he come now, to trouble us!

MOS: “Of cloth of gold, two more”—

CORB: Is it done, Mosca?

MOS: “Of several velvets, eight”—

VOLT: I like his care.

CORB: Dost thou not hear?

[ENTER CORVINO.]

CORB: Ha! is the hour come, Mosca?

VOLP [PEEPING OVER THE CURTAIN.]: Ay, now, they muster.

CORV: What does the advocate here, Or this Corbaccio?

CORB: What do these here?

[ENTER LADY POL. WOULD-BE.]

LADY P: Mosca! Is his thread spun?

MOS: “Eight chests of linen”—

VOLP: O, My fine dame Would-be, too!

CORV: Mosca, the Will, That I may shew it these, and rid them hence.

MOS: “Six chests of diaper, four of damask.”—There.

[GIVES THEM THE WILL CARELESSLY, OVER HIS SHOULDER.]

CORB: Is that the will?

MOS: “Down-beds, and bolsters”—

VOLP: Rare! Be busy still. Now they begin to flutter: They never think of me. Look, see, see, see! How their swift eyes run over the long deed, Unto the name, and to the legacies, What is bequeath’d them there—

MOS: “Ten suits of hangings”—

VOLP: Ay, in their garters, Mosca. Now their hopes Are at the gasp.

VOLT: Mosca the heir?

CORB: What’s that?

VOLP: My advocate is dumb; look to my merchant, He has heard of some strange storm, a ship is lost, He faints; my lady will swoon. Old glazen eyes, He hath not reach’d his despair yet.

CORB [TAKES THE WILL.]: All these Are out of hope: I am sure, the man.

CORV: But, Mosca—

MOS: “Two cabinets.”

CORV: Is this in earnest?

MOS: “One Of ebony”—

CORV: Or do you but delude me?

MOS: The other, mother of pearl—I am very busy. Good faith, it is a fortune thrown upon me— “Item, one salt of agate”—not my seeking.

LADY P: Do you hear, sir?

MOS: “A perfum’d box”—‘Pray you forbear, You see I’m troubled—“made of an onyx”—

LADY P: How!

MOS: To-morrow or next day, I shall be at leisure To talk with you all.

CORV: Is this my large hope’s issue?

LADY P: Sir, I must have a fairer answer.

MOS: Madam! Marry, and shall: ‘pray you, fairly quit my house. Nay, raise no tempest with your looks; but hark you, Remember what your ladyship offer’d me, To put you in an heir; go to, think on it: And what you said e’en your best madams did For maintenance, and why not you? Enough. Go home, and use the poor sir Pol, your knight, well, For fear I tell some riddles; go, be melancholy.

[EXIT LADY WOULD-BE.]

VOLP: O, my fine devil!

CORV: Mosca, ‘pray you a word.

MOS: Lord! will you not take your dispatch hence yet? Methinks, of all, you should have been the example. Why should you stay here? with what thought? what promise? Hear you; do not you know, I know you an ass, And that you would most fain have been a wittol, If fortune would have let you? that you are A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl, You’ll say, was yours? right: this diamond? I’ll not deny’t, but thank you. Much here else? It may be so. Why, think that these good works May help to hide your bad. I’ll not betray you; Although you be but extraordinary, And have it only in title, it sufficeth: Go home, be melancholy too, or mad.

[EXIT CORVINO.]

VOLP: Rare Mosca! how his villany becomes him!

VOLT: Certain he doth delude all these for me.

CORB: Mosca the heir!

VOLP: O, his four eyes have found it.

CORB: I am cozen’d, cheated, by a parasite slave; Harlot, thou hast gull’d me.

MOS: Yes, sir. Stop your mouth, Or I shall draw the only tooth is left. Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch, With the three legs, that, here, in hope of prey, Have, any time this three years, snuff’d about, With your most grovelling nose; and would have hired Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir? Are not you he that have to-day in court Profess’d the disinheriting of your son? Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink. If you but croak a syllable, all comes out: Away, and call your porters! [exit corbaccio.] Go, go, stink.

VOLP: Excellent varlet!

VOLT: Now, my faithful Mosca, I find thy constancy.

MOS: Sir!

VOLT: Sincere.

MOS [WRITING.]: “A table Of porphyry”—I marle, you’ll be thus troublesome.

VOLP: Nay, leave off now, they are gone.

MOS: Why? who are you? What! who did send for you? O, cry you mercy, Reverend sir! Good faith, I am grieved for you, That any chance of mine should thus defeat Your (I must needs say) most deserving travails: But I protest, sir, it was cast upon me, And I could almost wish to be without it, But that the will o’ the dead must be observ’d, Marry, my joy is that you need it not, You have a gift, sir, (thank your education,) Will never let you want, while there are men, And malice, to breed causes. Would I had But half the like, for all my fortune, sir! If I have any suits, as I do hope, Things being so easy and direct, I shall not, I will make bold with your obstreperous aid, Conceive me,—for your fee, sir. In mean time, You that have so much law, I know have the conscience, Not to be covetous of what is mine. Good sir, I thank you for my plate; ‘twill help To set up a young man. Good faith, you look As you were costive; best go home and purge, sir.

[EXIT VOLTORE.]

VOLP [COMES FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]: Bid him eat lettuce well. My witty mischief, Let me embrace thee. O that I could now Transform thee to a Venus!—Mosca, go, Straight take my habit of clarissimo, And walk the streets; be seen, torment them more: We must pursue, as well as plot. Who would Have lost this feast?

MOS: I doubt it will lose them.

VOLP: O, my recovery shall recover all. That I could now but think on some disguise To meet them in, and ask them questions: How I would vex them still at every turn!

MOS: Sir, I can fit you.

VOLP: Canst thou?

MOS: Yes, I know One o’ the commandadori, sir, so like you; Him will I straight make drunk, and bring you his habit.

VOLP: A rare disguise, and answering thy brain! O, I will be a sharp disease unto them.

MOS: Sir, you must look for curses—

VOLP: Till they burst; The Fox fares ever best when he is curst.

[EXEUNT.]

SCENE 5.2.

A HALL IN SIR POLITICK’S HOUSE.

ENTER PEREGRINE DISGUISED, AND THREE MERCHANTS.

PER: Am I enough disguised?

1 MER: I warrant you.

PER: All my ambition is to fright him only.

2 MER: If you could ship him away, ‘twere excellent.

3 MER: To Zant, or to Aleppo?

PER: Yes, and have his Adventures put i’ the Book of Voyages. And his gull’d story register’d for truth. Well, gentlemen, when I am in a while, And that you think us warm in our discourse, Know your approaches.

1 MER: Trust it to our care.

[EXEUNT MERCHANTS.]

[ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]

PER: Save you, fair lady! Is sir Pol within?

WOM: I do not know, sir.

PER: Pray you say unto him, Here is a merchant, upon earnest business, Desires to speak with him.

WOM: I will see, sir. [EXIT.]

PER: Pray you.— I see the family is all female here.

[RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]

WOM: He says, sir, he has weighty affairs of state, That now require him whole; some other time You may possess him.

PER: Pray you say again, If those require him whole, these will exact him, Whereof I bring him tidings. [EXIT WOMAN.] —What might be His grave affair of state now! how to make Bolognian sausages here in Venice, sparing One o’ the ingredients?

[RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.]

WOM: Sir, he says, he knows By your word “tidings,” that you are no statesman, And therefore wills you stay.

PER: Sweet, pray you return him; I have not read so many proclamations, And studied them for words, as he has done— But—here he deigns to come.

[EXIT WOMAN.]

[ENTER SIR POLITICK.]

SIR P: Sir, I must crave Your courteous pardon. There hath chanced to-day, Unkind disaster ‘twixt my lady and me; And I was penning my apology, To give her satisfaction, as you came now.

PER: Sir, I am grieved I bring you worse disaster: The gentleman you met at the port to-day, That told you, he was newly arrived—

SIR P: Ay, was A fugitive punk?

PER: No, sir, a spy set on you; And he has made relation to the senate, That you profest to him to have a plot To sell the State of Venice to the Turk.

SIR P: O me!

PER: For which, warrants are sign’d by this time, To apprehend you, and to search your study For papers—

SIR P: Alas, sir, I have none, but notes Drawn out of play-books—

PER: All the