Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm’d this morning:
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the
parchment.
Volt. Happy, happy, me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?
Mos. Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause.
Volt. Thy modesty
Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it.
Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took him.
I oft have heard him say, how he admired
Men of
your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse
again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And [re-] return; [could] make knots, and
undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up: these men,
He knew,
would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such
a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplex’d a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor
scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin!—
[Knocking without.
And yet—pretend you came, and went in haste:
I’ll fashion an excuse—and, gentle sir,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is borne up stiff, with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.
Volt. Mosca!—
Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will?—Anon!—
I’ll bring them
to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business in your face.
[Exit Voltore.
Volp. [springing up.] Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.
Mos. Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.
Volp. Set the plate away:
The vulture’s gone, and the old raven’s come!
Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your sleep.
Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate to the rest.]
Now,
Shall we see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over
his grave—
Enter Corbaccio.
You’re 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.