Volp. Well, I am here, and all this brunt is past.
I ne’er was in dislike with my disguise
Till this fled moment: here ’twas good, in private;
But in your public,—cave whilst I breathe.
’Fore God, my left leg ’gan to have the cramp,
And I apprehended straight some power had struck me
With a dead palsy: Well! I must be merry,
And shake it off. A many of these fears
Would put me into some villainous disease,
Should they come thick upon me: I’ll prevent ’em.
Give me a bowl of lusty wine, to fright
This humour from my heart. [Drinks.]—Hum, hum, hum!
’Tis almost gone already; I shall conquer.
Any device, now, of rare ingenious knavery,
That would possess me with a violent laughter,
Would make me up again. [Drinks again.]—So, so, so, so!
This heat is life; ’tis blood by this time:—Mosca!

Enter Mosca.

Mos. How now, sir? does the day look clear again?
Are we recover’d, and wrought out of error,
Into our way, to see our path before us?
Is our trade free once more?

Volp. Exquisite Mosca!

Mos. Was it not carried learnedly?

Volp. And stoutly:
Good wits are greatest in extremities.

Mos. It were a folly beyond thought, to trust
Any grand act unto a cowardly spirit:
You are not taken with it enough, methinks.

Volp. O, more than if I had enjoy’d the wench:
The pleasure of all woman-kind’s not like it.

Mos. Why now you speak, sir. We must here be fix’d;
Here we must rest; this is our master-piece;
We cannot think to go beyond this.

Volp. True,
Thou hast play’d thy prize, my precious Mosca.

Mos. Nay, sir,
To gull the court—

Volp. And quite divert the torrent
Upon the innocent.

Mos. Yes, and to make
So rare a music out of discords—

Volp. Right.
That yet to me’s the strangest, how thou hast borne it!
That these, being so divided ’mongst themselves,
Should not scent somewhat, or in me or thee,
Or doubt their own side.

Mos. True, they will not see’t.
Too much light blinds them, I think. Each of them
Is so possest and stuft with his own hopes,
That any thing unto the contrary,
Never so true, or never so apparent,
Never so palpable, they will resist it—

Volp. Like a temptation of the devil.

Mos. Right, sir.
Merchants may talk of trade, and your great signiors
Of land that yields well; but if Italy
Have any glebe more fruitful than these fellows,
I am deceiv’d. Did not your advocate rare?

Volp. O—My most honour’d fathers, my grave fathers,
Under correction of your fatherhoods,
What face of truth is here? If these strange deeds
May pass, most honour’d fathers—I had much ado
To forbear laughing.

Mos. It seem’d to me, you sweat, sir.