Bon. Yes, I will stay there.—I do doubt this fellow.
[Aside, and exit.
Mos. [looking after him.] There; he is far enough; he can
hear nothing:
And, for his father, I can keep him
off.
[Exit.
Scene V.—Volpone’s Chamber.—Volpone on his couch.
Mosca sitting by him.
Enter Corvino, forcing in Celia.
Corv. Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,
Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.
It must be
done. Nor would I move’t afore,
Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,
That might deny me.
Cel. Sir, let me beseech you,
Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt
My chastity, why, lock me up for
ever;
Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,
Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.
Corv. Believe it, I have no such humour, I.
All that I speak I mean; yet I’m not mad;
Nor horn-mad, see
you? Go to, shew yourself
Obedient, and a wife.
Cel. O heaven!
Corv. I say it,
Do so.
Cel. Was this the train?
Corv. I’ve told you reasons;
It may concern me; what my engagements are;
My means; and the necessity of those means,
For my recovery: wherefore, if you be
Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.
Cel. Before your honour?
Corv. Honour! tut, a breath:
There’s no such thing in nature: a mere term
Invented to awe fools. What
is my gold
The worse for touching, clothes for being look’d on?
Why, this is no more. An old decrepit
wretch,
That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat
With others’ fingers; only knows to gape,
When you
do scald his gums; a voice, a shadow;
And, what can this man hurt you?
Cel. Lord! what spirit
Is this hath enter’d him? [Aside.
Corv. And for your fame,
That’s such a jig; as if I would go tell it,
Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know
it,
But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow,
Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself,
(If you’ll proclaim’t,
you may,) I know no other
Shall come to know it.
Cel. Are heaven and saints then nothing?
Will they be blind or stupid?
Corv. How!
Cel. Good sir,
Be jealous still, emulate them; and think
What hate they burn with toward every sin.
Corv. I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,
I would not urge you. Should I offer this
To some young Frenchman,
or hot Tuscan blood
That had read Aretine, conn’d all his prints,
Knew every quirk within lust’s labyrinth,
And