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 kiss’d 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—